Metamorphosis: The 123rd Hunger Games
by Morgandi
Summary: The Games... they'll change the tributes. The poor kids plan on entering the arena as people with their identities intact, but what will come out is entirely different. They might come out broken physically and scarred mentally. And they'll probably come out dead. There's no changing that.
1. Lord of the Flies

**At long last, it is time to begin this story! I PMed all of you lovely people about this, and you responded by giving me amazing characters that I seriously don't want to kill off. But kill them off I will, because 23 must die before there can be a Victor...**

**But that's a bit premature, isn't it? We haven't even gotten to the reapings yet! They've still got ~some~ time.**

**I hope you enjoy this prologue! It's meant to explain the political climate in the districts and Capitol and will also hint at events to come... FORESHADOWING BAAAAH**

**Alright, that's all I have to say. I hope you'll enjoy, and I truly cannot wait to _really _get started... meyehehe**

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_Prologue_

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**Tris Garin, 24**

**Peacekeeper**

The starched white of my Peacekeeper uniform clings at the swell of my chest and outlines the curves of my hips in stark clarity. I can feel Taego's eyes on me, drinking me in, but I don't try to dissuade him. He is Capitol-born, where there is no shame in looking at a woman (or a man, though I do not care to look at him.)

Between us is Ginger Jinnah, a smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes. She has seen Taego's wandering gaze, but it only serves to amuse her. Sometimes I wonder how it is that we were born together in District Two. Surely she was made to be a Capitol woman.

Capitol woman or no, all three of us are far from home now. The electric hum of District Five is everywhere, and the air stinks of ozone. Taego smells it too; he pulls the standard-issue mask over his nose and mouth, and the wrinkles around his eyes smooth in relief. "You should put yours on," he says, when he catches me looking. His voice is clear through the paper that obstructs his thin lips. "It reeks."

I only shake my head. "We're to use the masks in the event of a chemical attack," I exclaim, stepping forward. "Not because of a smell."

Taego crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't patronize me," he snaps, narrowing his eyes. "_I'm _the leader of this team, Tris, not you. Put your mask on."

He is my superior, and I can't ignore a direct order. Reluctantly, I yank the mask up from where it rests on my collarbone. Once it is settled, the air smells much sweeter. But it is mostly pointless, and I will be making no concessions.

Ginger is now the only one without a mask, but she makes no comment on the smell. "We should go," she yawns, pulling back fiery red hair that I suspect has been dyed. "You have the maps, Tris?"

I nod. None of us have ever been stationed in District Five before; it is new to us. We have been told that our presence here is essential. We have barely arrived, and we are preparing for our first objective already. _There was a riot, _my case file said. _Five Peacekeepers wounded, one killed. _The file went on to describe the measures taken to discover the instigators, who are believed to be holed up in an abandoned factory in the electric district. With six Peacekeepers out of commission and the rest trying to stamp out the remnants of the protest, it falls to the three of us to make the arrests.

I pull a folded square of paper from the satchel at my hip and study it intently. "Straight," I say, "until we reach the main square. After that, we should be able to see it."

"Let's move," says Taego, walking ahead. With a slight shrug, Ginger goes after him. I pause only to replace the paper before following.

Ginger slows until the two of us are walking abreast. "A protest," she says, with a significant look. "Not very specific."

"I'm sure the details were unimportant," I reply. "The outer Districts are always complaining, aren't they? Not enough grain, too little medicine. And the Games. Always the Games."

Ginger raises her eyebrows. "How resigned you sound," she says. "Don't tell me you didn't want to train when you were a kid? I know I did."

"I always wanted to be a Peacekeeper," I respond shortly. "When they picked me, it was the happiest day of my life."

Ginger grimaces. "When they picked me, it was the _worst _day of my life," she complains. "I wasn't meant to be celibate."

"You _aren't _celibate," I reply, not even sparing her a glance. "You bought a Victor for your 21st birthday party."

She narrows her eyes, suspicious. "How do you know?"

"I was there."

"Oh, right," she responds. "That was fun, wasn't it?"

"I had a good time that night," I agree. But when the groping started, I beat a hasty retreat. Many Peacekeepers ignore the Code and do what they like in their spare time, but I swore to never be with a man (or a woman) and so far I have honored that vow.

"We're here," Taego calls. Ginger and I peel away from each other and survey the area. It is early morning, but the square is mostly empty. I see another trio of Peacekeepers marching a struggling man between them, but no one else.

"They must have cracked down after the attack," I suggest. "The people are frightened to go out."

"They should be," says Taego, in a tone he thinks is menacing. "If they're going to rebel, they have to be prepared for the consequences."

"It wasn't a rebellion," I remind him. "Just a protest."

He waves me away. "It makes no difference," he exclaims, and points. "See there? It's the factory. We'll be going in through the back door, so we'll take the back alley."

By now it's pointless; if they are watching for us with any sort of lens (as they probably are) they will have seen us standing here. But I know better than to argue. Ginger and I follow Taego around to the back. Taego flinches visibly when he notices that the back alley is crawling with filth, but he says nothing. After all, it was his idea.

We pick our way through the garbage in silence. The quiet is eerie. By the time we reach the factory, all three of us are mildly nervous. Taego practically throws himself onto the steps of the small back entrance; his relief is comical. Ginger and I share a look at that. When Taego sees Ginger smirking, his face darkens dangerously. With a growl, he swivels, lifts his leg, and kicks the door in.

The smile on my lips withers. I knew that Taego was a Peacekeeper for a reason, but I had no idea he was so strong. In the future I will keep a closer eye on him.

We move into the factory fluidly. It is silent and empty, and there is more than enough room for three or four people to be hiding. I remove my gun and jab it threateningly in the air, but there's no one to point it at. There is a walkway above, but no one is standing on it. Large industrial machines dot the area, but there are no sounds suggesting that they are occupied. Dim light filters from the strips on the ceiling and paints our uniforms a sickly green.

After several tense minutes, Taego lowers his gun in disgust. "They're hiding," he says. "We're gonna have to flush them out."

And then the real lights come on.

The effect is blinding. The emergency strips were nothing compared to the industrial-size globes that hang from the cracked ceiling. Ginger shrieks in pain and I can hear Taego stumbling into something. My palm is clapped over my eyes and my gun is extended. But I can hardly shoot if I can't see.

I open my fingers a crack and squint. My eyes are watering, but I can make out dim shapes. Along the wall, panels are sliding away and lean figures are pouring out. I grimace, raising my gun. There are more than three. There are more than ten. There must be at least thirty slipping out from the gigantic hidden vents, with more on the way.

Taego, still cursing, has raised his gun as well. He is able to squeeze off three shots before one of the people, a man with black hair gelled into spikes, grabs Taego's wrist and dashes his gun to the floor. Without pausing for breath, the man yanks a long knife from his belt, briefly aims, and plunges the blade through Taego's eye.

It happens so quickly. Taego jerks, mouthing words that have no meaning. Blood froths around the blade and the man pulls it out. Taego stiffens. He hits the ground with a dull thud. His cheek is smeared red.

I curse. My finger closes around the trigger and I fire, again and again. Ginger is doing the same, but a woman bowls into her and sends the two of them sprawling. The gun skitters out of Ginger's hand and vanishes behind a pipe.

Now it is only me. I raise the gun once more, futilely, and a blow catches me on the side of the head. I crash into my attacker and barely have time to process the heavyset man's green eyes before my gun is pressed against his nose. I yank hard on the trigger, and blood and bits of bone coat my face and hands.

Someone gets a firm grip on my auburn hair and pulls my head back. It is the man that murdered Taego, and his eyes are harsh and frozen. Someone else yanks the gun out of my hand, and I am forced to my knees. I hear no sound from Ginger but heavy breathing. _She is still alive, _I think, and I don't know whether to be relieved or horrified.

"I have her, Katarya," says the man whose fingers are firmly tangled in my hair.

"And I have one as well," adds the woman that captured Ginger. Her face is jovial. "What shall we do with them?"

For a moment, I can't tell who they are talking to. Then I spot the woman with fiery red hair like Ginger's, leaning against a wall with her arms crossed across her chest. She is wearing a suit that reminds me of a Peacekeeper's uniform, but it is in black. Her face is quietly triumphant, although she is not smiling.

She looks at Ginger, then at me. "Tell me," she says softly. "If I have questions for you, will you answer them for me? Or will you lie, or refuse to speak?"

I take a deep breath. "Torture me, then," I spit. "I'll tell you nothing."

Ginger hesitates. "I suppose you'll be killing us if we don't speak?"

Gravely, the woman who must be Katarya nods.

"I'm sorry, Tris," says Ginger suddenly. She looks back towards Katarya. "I'll talk," she says evenly. "I'm not planning on dying any time soon."

I sag, until the only thing holding me up is the man who has my hair. "Ginger," I exclaim. "You traitor." I only wish that I was surprised.

Before she can respond, Katarya moves away from the wall. "Is it really so _traitorous _to help your own people?" she asks quietly. "We are all of Panem. Why is it that you Capitolians consider us scum?"

"You _are _scum," I growl, ignoring the pain as the man yanks at my scalp. "If you'll murder the people who keep the peace, you deserve what you get."

She regards me sadly. "There's no hope for people like you," she says.

"The others know you're here," I warn her, although it is pointless. "They'll come to this place in droves when we don't return."

"They probably will," agrees Katarya. "We won't be there to see them." She reaches towards the man who stabbed Taego, and he hands her the knife. It is still covered in half-congealed blood and other fluids. I try not to flinch.

Katarya narrows her eyes at me, and grasps me firmly by the chin. My heart rate increases and I struggle for breath. "You're mad," I exclaim. "All of you."

"Maybe," says Katarya, placing the knife against the skin at the base of my neck. "But anyone who supports a regime that murders children is just as insane as I am."

With that, she plunges the blade into my neck and, with a pivot of her wrist, she slits my throat.


	2. Outsiders

**Hey guys! Here we are with the second chapter of _Metamorphosis. _As I'm sure you've probably already noticed, this is not a traditional reaping chapter. I've actually separated the reapings into three separate chapters of which this is the first. The reason behind this is that I seriously doubt that I have the patience to write all 24 individual reapings. So, without further ado, here is the day before the reapings, from the POV of eight lovely tributes.  
**

**Happy reading!**

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_Before the Reapings_

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**Terance Ryiane, 13**

**District Twelve**

"It'll be _fun," _says Glade, spreading her hands out in a placating sort of way. "C'mon, Terance. You've gotta do something with your life. You can't just sit around and be boring all the time."

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck with a hand the color of an olive. "I guess." I say hesitantly. "I'm not sure if Ms. Gallagher will want us around, though. Perhaps we should postpone until another time? After the Reapings, maybe?"

"Perhaps you should stop being such a _pussy," _says Glade cheerfully, tossing her thick dark hair. "Lorda and I are buddies!"

"You two are on a first-name basis?" I ask, intrigued. My father has always warned me against calling adults by their first names. Mom is less optimistic. _"They won't forget what he is because he's polite, Merch," _she'd tell him, storming around the house and slamming cupboards. _"Do you know what they call him at school? They call him 'Seam Brat'." _

They _do _call me "Seam Brat" at school. Some of them, anyway. Not the nice ones, like Glade. But I stay quiet anyway. _They won't forget what I am. _Mom always says that she had no idea the merchants could be so hateful. She was from the Seam, a long time ago. We're of the merchant class now. But they haven't forgotten where she comes from, and they won't let me forget, either. I'm not a _real _merchant. I'm a Seam Brat, in the end.

Glade is nodding proudly. "Lorda is really cool, Terance," she says confidentially. "She'll give me cookies for free."

That piques my interest. Cookies aren't exactly a rare commodity in my household, but _free _cookies? Turning down free cookies is folly.

Catching my questioning look, Glade smiles. "You want free cookies? You better come, then."

That does it. I nod my assent and Glade smiles wickedly. "C'mon," she says, rising to her feet. "If we hurry, we'll even have time for a story before the reapings."

I figure that the story is what Glade is after. Glade is rail-thin and I bet she doesn't eat all too many cookies. But she loves stories. She once told me a frightening story about a thin man who ate children that kept me awake at night for a week. If I remember correctly, she told the story right before the reapings, too. It wasn't that scary of a story, but coupled with the dread of the reapings, it was as if I could see the thin man lurking at the foot of my bed, skeletal hands resting gently on the blanket.

I shiver. "Coming," I squeak, awkwardly clambering to my feet.

Glade and I have been sheltered in the cool darkness of her attic. Motes of dust float serenely in the still air as I follow her down the ladder. We close the trap door with a click and race through the house.

"Where are you two off to?" Glade's mother asks, as she notices us going for the front door. She is sitting on the plush armchair by the window, one hand gently caressing her swollen belly. Glade always grumbles that she doesn't want a baby sister, but I know she's secretly excited. Now Glade will have someone else to tell stories to (although I'm hoping they won't be as scary as the ones Glade tells _me_.)

"We're gonna see Lorda," says Glade, brash as always. That brings a smile to her mother's face, but it is a tearful smile. Glade and I each have three slips in the reaping bowls. It is not a lot, but it isn't like last year, when we knew we wouldn't get picked. At thirteen, it's more likely. I don't even want to think about what it's like at eighteen.

"Have fun, kids," she says, with that watery smile. Glade turns and bolts out of the house, and I follow gratefully. I've never known what to say to people who are crying. Generally, I don't say anything at all, and kind of just stand there until they stop.

Because it is the morning of the reapings, everyone is out and about. A few people stop and say hello to Glade as we weave through the crowd. Only one person says hello to me. I'm used to it. I never really made much of an impression on District Twelve, apart from being "the Seam kid." But even the novelty of hating me has worn off. Most people are indifferent towards me. I'm just another piece of the background, just another meaningless face.

And that's alright by me.

Being in the center of attention makes me feel sick and uncomfortable. On the first day of classes, when the teacher asked us to go around in a circle and say our names and our favorite hobbies, I cried when it was my turn to speak. I was only four then, but I'm still not a big fan of knowing that everybody's watching me.

I suppose that might be a reason tributes go insane in the arena so much. They must know that everything they do, everything they say, every choice they make, is being carefully watched. It's enough to drive anyone a little mad.

Glade grabs me by the arm when we reach the bakery. "Here," she announces, although it's unnecessary. Before I can formulate a reply, she bolts forward and taps loudly on the glass. "Lorda?" she calls. "Lorda? It's me, Glade!

"And now we wait," she adds, turning back to look at me. "Lorda's old. It takes her a long time to get to the door."

"Okay." Several minutes pass in silence before the door at Glade's back begins to open. My friend catches herself just in time and manages to avoid falling flat on her back by doing a little mid-air twist. She grins cheekily when she catches me looking.

"I can't help being so skilled," she says.

"Can't you, dearie?" says the old woman standing behind her. "And here I was thinking it was an active choice on your part. My, my, how wrong I was."

I laugh, incredulous. Her tone is just as sour as Glade's always is. No wonder they like each other.

Glade puts her hands on her hips. "You should let us in," she demands. "The reapings are today. We could be gone before the day is over."

Lorda's eyes dim a little, although her smile remains. "By all means," she says, "come inside. And who are you, young man?" she adds, having noticed me for the first time.

I wriggle uncomfortably. "Terance," I say. "Nice to meet you."

"You as well," she says. "My name is Lorda Gallagher. Would you like a cookie, or am I being too forward with you? After all, we only just met." Her eyes twinkle devilishly.

"He'll take the cookie," says Glade impatiently, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the bakery. "And I'll take a story."

"Goodness," the old lady says, raising her hands to the heavens. "Sometimes I think you only want one thing from me, girl."

"I _do," _says Glade. "Here." She snatches several cookies off the counter and presses them into my hand. "Eat," she says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Hesitantly, looking to Lorda for approval, I raise a cookie to my lips. When the old woman smiles and nods, I take a bite. The taste of butter fills my mouth and I lick my lips to capture all the stray crumbs.

"Okay," says Glade. "Let's go, Lorda. We don't have all day."

Lorda glares at her severely. "You seem quite ungrateful, young lady. Might be I'll send you away with nothing."

"Nah," says Glade. "You can't! It's reaping day."

Lorda's mouth thins. "You'll both be fine, I'm sure," she says, and then her eyes go dreamy. "I remember a time before this nonsense," she says. "We had peace, for a while. Until that bastard Pericles took over..."

I can sense that this conversation is bordering on treason, but Glade seems enthralled. "More," she begs. "Tell us more."

"It's not a pleasant story," says the old woman, and then she rolls her eyes. "Not that _you _care, Glade."

"I don't!"

"Excellent." The old woman's smile stretches wide. "It all started in the reign of President Targon," she says. "That was back in the days when Panem was still a Republic, mind you. They voted him in. I was only a child at the time, but I remember that my mother thought he was quite handsome." She shakes her head and clucks. "Handsome, maybe, but also a complete and utter psychopath. Not that it dampened the effect, of course. He was really quite the looker."

She pauses to take a breath. "Targon believed that the Capitolians were evil, and that they deserved to be punished for it. The Hunger Games had been outlawed for quite some time, but in the _very _old days (yes, before I was born, Glade!) the Capitol had used them against the districts. Targon had a long memory, apparently, and he hated them for it. He brought back the Games, with Capitol children as the players."

This makes us gasp. "_Capitol _kids?" Glade asks. "There was a Hunger Games with Capitol kids?!"

"There were _three _Hunger Games with Capitol children," Lorda corrects, looking shrewd. "There might have been more, but by this point it was widely agreed that Targon was completely insane, and unfit to rule. He fought, of course, but in the end they took him down."

"Took him down _how?" _shouts Glade.

Lorda sighs. "What a bloodthirsty child," she says fondly. "Remind me of myself at your age! Ahem. If you _must _know, Targon was shot to pieces by Capitolian rebels. The Capitolians took over the Capitol itself, and with it the weapons of mass destruction located there. Then-"

"_Weapons of mass destruction?!" _ Glade is purple in the face with excitement. "Weapons? Of _mass _destruction?"

"Yes, Glade. _Mass _destruction. _Anyway, _said weapons were used to obliterate District Thirteen and to reinstate the Capitol as the mighty power it once was. President Pericles immediately brought back the Hunger Games for district children, and it has been like this ever since."

We sit in silence for several moments. "Are you even_ allowed _to know all this stuff?" asks Glade finally. "Can't they kill you for it or something?"

"Not if they don't know that I _do _know," says Lorda. "So try to keep your darling mouth _closed, _Glade, and you might get a few more free cookies out of me yet."

"Cool," says Glade appreciatively. Then she happens to glance at the clock hanging behind the counter, and lets loose several choice swears. "We gotta go," she growls, heading for the door. "Finish the cookie and lets get out of here, Terance."

I shove the last cookie into my mouth. It tastes like chocolate, a substance so rare that I have only tasted it once. I wonder if there's real chocolate in the cookie, but dismiss the thought. I would never receive such a commodity for _free._

Glade is waiting outside. I realize with a hint of nervousness that it is just me and the old lady in the shop. I turn to look at her, feeling weirdly apprehensive. "T-thank you for the cookies," I stammer, jamming my hands in my pockets.

Without Glade, Lorda's smile is much gentler. "It was nothing," she says sincerely. "I wish you luck, young man. I hope this day turns out well for you."

"_Terance!" _Glade calls, and Lorda laughs.

"Go," she says. "Your friend is waiting for you." With that, she goes behind the counter and begins to work, sorting cookies into the proper trays.

I hesitate only a moment before heading into the bright sunlight, leaving her alone with the musty quiet and the scent of flour hanging heavy in the air.

* * *

**Colton "Colt" Gray, 13**

**District Ten**

I don't know why I came here. The field where District Ten holds the annual reapings is empty but for the woman tottering about onstage in her ridiculous heels, trying to stop herself from tripping over her own feet. Looking at her, I feel a wave of almost physical loathing and have to grit my teeth to keep from shouting at her.

Coming to this place before the reapings is considered bad luck. I don't really care what other people think about it, though. I wanted to be here. _Maybe I wanted to show up just to annoy everybody who thinks I should be somewhere else, _I think, and that makes me grin. _That sounds about right._

But the escort who is determinedly practicing her oh-so-elegant walk doesn't seem to care that she has a small audience. Perhaps that only encourages her to work harder. That thought makes my blood boil. There's something twisted about the escorts. They _volunteer _to ship kids off to their deaths, and they pretend that it's fun, that it's one big adventure. It's an adventure, alright, but it sure isn't a _fun _one.

I cross my arms over my chest and scowl at the woman. She can't see me; I'm all the way in the back, practically standing on the road that leads into the densely populated section of the district. There are too many people in District Ten to have the reapings in a traditional square, so they are located out here in the grass. It's a nice kind of place, but the fact that two kids are called to their deaths here every year kind of ruins the effect.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and spot a trio of Peacekeepers marching towards the stage, looking grim. Something happened recently, I think. I don't know where, I don't know what, but the Peacekeepers have been nervous. That's bad news. When they're nervous, they're more likely to bring out the whip. There's some law about forcing the entire district to come watch the whippings, but there are a lot of whippings now, and the law's too impractical to follow. The Peacekeepers solve that problem by leaving their victims chained up in the stocks for a couple hours after the whipping itself. The stench of open wounds, dirt and soiled clothing is enough to put me off eating for a couple of days.

Despite the beatings, trouble for the Peacekeepers makes me deliriously happy. I love the idea that they're finally having troubles of their own. The Peacekeepers are the worst. Even the escorts are alright, compared to the psychopaths that "keep the peace."

As I watch, two of the Peacekeepers walk towards the stage. The other peels away from them and walks towards me. I recognize that leonine gait and ball my hands into fists. At my back, the skin itches and aches, remembering old wounds, the fiery lick of the whip.

I don't know if the Peacekeeper even recognizes me. I don't know his name, but they call him Grin, on account of the fact that he smiles while he's whipping, or beating, or doing whatever it is psychotics do in their spare time.

He's grinning now, even, a sly smile that bares his white teeth at me. "Little boys shouldn't be here before the reapings," he says pleasantly. "They should be at home. They should be preparing."

"I'm not _little," _I snap, stung by the comment. I'm 5'5", and very tall for my age. Everybody says so.

Grin takes a step closer to me. He's a lot taller than I am. When his shadow falls across my face, his eyes seem to gleam maliciously. "Go home," he tells me, in a tone that leaves no room for discussion or argument.

"No," I tell him. "I want to watch."

He raises an eyebrow. "No? Do you know who I am?" His grin thins into a grimace. "I know who_ you _are," he says. "I remember you." He puts a hand to his chin and thinks about it for a moment. "You spoke treasonous words, if I recall."

"I called President Pericles a moron," I remind him. "And it's still true," I add.

Now he seems weirdly delighted. "Little boy," he sings. "Do you _want _me to beat you?"

I am breathing heavily. "I'm not _little, _you pig. And I don't care what you do. You could go sleep with a cow for all I care-"

I'm cut off by the vicious backhand across my face. It stings, but this is what I've been waiting for. With a roar, I launch myself at the Peacekeeper, punching at his shins. He bends under my weight and we tumble to the ground.

I drive a fist into Grin's belly and the air gushes out of him. I'm clawing at his face, going for his eyes. He kicks me in between the legs and I scream in pain, but I don't stop. My fingers close around his neck and I'm slamming the back of his head into the ground. His eyes are bright with malice.

I can hear the other Peacekeepers shouting and I know they're on their way. _This is stupid, _I think, and Grin manages to kick me off of him. Dazed, I sit up in the grass, and Grin does the same. I'm about ready to lunge at him again when a blow catches me in the back of the head. Stunned, I flop to the ground bonelessly.

In front of me, Grin gets to his feet and brushes down his clothes. Someone grabs me by the collar and hauls me to my feet. Both Peacekeepers that ran to Grin's aid immediately grab one of my arms. I strain against them, but I'm going nowhere.

Grin smiles at me, and I know I'm in trouble. "I really do remember you," he says. "I only hit you five times. You were quite small then." Thoughtfully, he grabs my chin and stares directly into my dark brown eyes. "You're bigger now."

"We should take him to the Justice Building," suggests one of the Peacekeepers holding me.

Grin dismisses the notion with a wave of his hand. "Oh, what's the point? We can deal with this here." He lets go of my chin and stands back, looking at me appraisingly. "I think this boy needs a rather... blunt... lesson." As he says this, he pulls the thick black stick that they use to beat back protesters out of his belt. "Get him on his knees," Grin orders. They shove down on my shoulders and I find myself kneeling awkwardly, one knee barely touching the ground.

I glare at Grin. "Do it," I dare him. "Just go ahead and _try _it."

"Oh, I will," he says, and slams the club into the side of my head.

I see stars. Blinking, I try to shake my head to get rid of them, and another blow hits me in the face. I can hear a snap, and warm wetness covers my upper lip. I groan in agony and another blow catches me on the throat, effectively silencing me.

Doggedly, I shake my head, mumbling threats and curses under my breath despite the fact that I can't make any sound. Grin seems my lips moving, though, because he slaps my cheek gently. "You should be more quiet," he admonishes me, slamming the club into my ribs. The other Peacekeepers release my shoulders and I slump to the ground, attempting to curl up in a ball to protect myself. Grin allows this for a moment before cracking me on the head hard enough to make me wail. At least he can't hear the cry; my voice is still lost, and the only thing that pours from my bleeding lips is air.

I waver in and out of consciousness after he begins to attack my stomach. Eventually it occurs to me that I am no longer being beaten, and I cautiously open one swollen eye. Grin is smiling down at me, holding the club. Red fluid drips from the rounded end.

"Have you learned your lesson, boy? I hope so. I'm not one to teach lessons twice." Despite my best efforts, my eye slips shut again. I can hear Grin laugh, and he gives me a parting kick. "Keep your mouth shut next time, you little bastard."

When I next open my eyes, the sun is shining brightly, and there are at least a dozen people patiently waiting for the reapings to begin and shooting me confused glances. I stagger drunkenly to my feet and wipe at the blood with the back of my hand. It hurts so much, everything hurts, and for a second I want to cry.

But my eyes remain dry. I can't let him win. I'm not going to cry.

I watch the escort tottering around onstage, and the Peacekeepers that have begun to circle the field, watching us closely. I observe these Capitol freaks with their weapons and smiles and false exuberance.

And I smile too.

I'm going to make them see. Someday, somehow, they're all going to see. And after that...

Well. At least I won't have to wait around for the reapings anymore.

* * *

**Taxton Reels, 17**

**District Six**

"You're going to die," I tell him.

Robyn doesn't react. He is sitting on the steps that lead to his hovel of a home, obsessively twisting a bracelet his sister gave him around and around on his thin wrist. _He loves that bracelet, _I muse. _I wonder what would happen if I took it? I wonder what would happen if he saw me wearing it... _

The thought brings a small smile onto my face. _Perhaps it would finally drive him over the edge, _I muse. _And that would be a sight to see. _

"I'm not going to die," says Robyn suddenly, "because I'm not going to get reaped."

I slip closer to him, sliding until our hips are practically touching. He winces at the contact. Robyn isn't afraid of touching _other _boys, from what I've observed, but he always gets uncomfortable when I get too close to him. I make it a point to get as close as I can to him, as often as I can. He'll go as far as to grimace or shift away, but he never tries to force me to move. It's somewhat disappointing.

"What makes you think that, Robyn?" I ask him pleasantly. "I'd say the odds are decidedly _not _in your favor. Tesserae for each family member, isn't that right?" He flushes and looks away, and I continue. "And it's still not enough. You're always hungry. You've been doing a rather poor job of taking care of your family, haven't you?"

"Aren't you worried?" demands Robyn suddenly. "Maybe _you'll _be District Six's male tribute for the 123rd Hunger Games. Doesn't that bother you?"

"District Six's male tribute for the 123rd Hunger Games," I muse. "Quite a mouthful, that. And no, I'm not particularly worried."

"Well, why not?" asks Robyn. I force myself not to grin, but I'm feeling very victorious. Usually, it's me who has to force Robyn to speak, and here he is, grilling _me _on _my _feelings. It's quite endearing. Perhaps I've finally managed to get him out of his shell! About time, really.

"You see," I explain patiently, "I don't think the Games would be a particular problem for me. The killing business is... messy, I'll admit it. And dealing with the Capitolians would probably be vexing. However,I have the utmost confidence that I would be able to win, if I was reaped... But enough about me. It's you we ought to be worried about, Mr. Tesserae."

"Don't call me that," snaps Robyn uncomfortably. "It's going to be fine. There are plenty of other kids who have tesserae."

"Yes, but not many who have more tesserae than you do. Coupled with the fact that you are seventeen and will therefore have a large amount of slips _anyway, _I'd say that it's exceedingly likely that the name they'll be calling out today will be _Robyn Whethers."_

Robyn turns to glare at me. "Hey. Shut up, Taxton. I'm not going to get reaped."

"I suppose that _telling _yourself that you'll be safe is an acceptable coping method," I allow. "I just want you to know that you're wrong, and telling yourself that you aren't isn't going to change that fact."

Robyn's eyes narrow. "Why don't you _go somewhere else," _he suggests, pointing down the street in a dramatic fashion. "There are plenty other places for you."

"But not for you," I sigh. "You dropped out of school to work at the auto shop, so there'll be no higher education for you. You don't know any of the other kids, and your boss dislikes you. Where else do you have to be? Nowhere. There's no one that wants you... You're lucky I'm _willing _to take the time to be here."

"You're an asshole," Robyn growls. For a moment I'm excited; perhaps now he'll finally work up the nerve to strike at me. But he looks away and the moment passes. _Damn._

It appears I'll have to step up my game if I want to illicit any sort of response from Robyn. "You know," I exclaim conversationally. "If I was you, I wouldn't be worrying about _myself." _He looks up at that, suddenly nervous. It appears I've struck a nerve. Robyn thinks that he's so selfless and pure. Maybe he is, but that's the kind of silly attitude that will get you killed. I'm not selfless, and I'm proud of the fact.

But it would seem that Robyn isn't. "You have four younger siblings," I remind him. "How many of them are eligible to be reaped? Three, isn't it?" His eyes take on that haunted look that means I've said something truly cutting, but I don't stop. It encourages me, actually. "If I were you, I'd be a lot more worried about the darling siblings I cared so much about. And you really do have lovely siblings, you know that, Robyn? It would be a real waste if any of them were to be reaped. Perhaps I would even volunteer for your younger brother..."

Robyn looks shocked. "You would?"

I slap him on the back of the head. "HAH!" I crow. "Fooled you!" He glares at me, but my smile doesn't go away. "You can be awfully gullible," I tell him. "You have to work on that."

"You're just..." He realizes that he can't come up with a suitable adjective and gives up. "If you had siblings, you'd understand."

"Of course I would," I exclaim fluidly. "I'd certainly be more worried about their well-being than my own. I wouldn't even be _thinking _about my own chances of being reaped, to be honest." If I were actually being honest, I would admit that my siblings' lives would haunt me quite a bit less than my own, but I'm not about to tell Robyn that. It would spoil the game!

He bites his lip. "Right," he says, looking guilty. "Same here."

"Ah," I say. "But you weren't thinking about them, were you? This whole time you've been worrying about yourself." He gives me a look and I raise my hands in submission. "No, no! I understand completely! It's perfectly natural to care only for yourself. It's part of the reason the human race is such a successful species."

He glares at me and goes back to twisting his hands in his lap. "I worry about my family," he says stubbornly. "They're why I got so much tesserae, aren't they?"

"Of course they are. They obviously occupy a large part of your mind. Perhaps not the largest and foremost part, but they can be found in there. Somewhere."

He gets to his feet so abruptly that I rear back, reminded of similar movements that my mother will make before she strikes me. She thinks that by hitting me, she can drive the _crazy _out... Even thinking about her makes me sick. _I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. _She's _crazy, not me._

Robyn stands in front of me, and his wrist is at eye-level. I'm awfully short for my age, and my head barely reaches his elbow, when he is standing and I'm sitting on the stairs. It's embarrassing. But right now I'm grateful for it, because it reminds me that I want his stupid bracelet. Perhaps that will finally drive him across that line, that precious line that makes him _kind _and _good _and _selfless._

I get to my feet as well and grab him by the shirt collar. He wasn't expecting it and tries to move back, but my arm is strong enough to keep him where he is. I draw him towards me until our foreheads crack together. I barely feel the pain, but his mouth gapes open as if he is a fish drowning in oxygen.

"Stop deluding yourself," I whisper, my grey eyes fixed on his. All the while, my left hand works deftly at the bracelet on his wrist, untying the woven strands. "You're just like all the rest of us, Robyn. You come first. You love your family, sure, but if it came down to you or them, you'd choose yourself in a heartbeat." I feel the bracelet come loose and cautiously close my palm around it. My other hand loosens at Robyn's collar. "I only say this out of concern," I murmur. "Lying to yourself isn't _healthy."_

I let him go. Shaken, he takes a few steps back and completely misses me slipping his bracelet into my pocket. This isn't the first time I've grabbed him, but it was by far the most intimate. He has gone unnaturally pale.

_Come on, _I think. _Hit me. Fight me._

Instead, he turns and begins to walk away, sending frightened looks at me over his shoulder.

I sigh, and reach into my pocket. My fingertips skim across Robyn's special bracelet and I feel slightly better. _You're just like me, Robyn, _I think. _Everyone is. I'm just the only one who'll admit it._

_And I'm _not _crazy._

* * *

**Lydia Starling, 15**

**District Three**

As of the 122nd Hunger Games, District Three has had two Victors.

Coyle Reid won the 82nd Hunger Games when he was fourteen years old. He is 55 now. According to _The Victors, _a popular (although not particularly well-written) Capitolian book, he is a complete bastard. Thinking about that makes me uncomfortable. _The complete bastards are the ones you have to watch out for. They'll bludgeon you to death without a thought when they get angry._

Come to think of it, reading _The Victors _on the morning before the reapings is probably an awful way to relax. But the book is filled with trivia, and when I think about the trivia I _don't _think about the reapings.

District Three's only other Victor is Olivine Trikle, who won the 86th Hunger Games at the age of 14. I don't even have to look at her age now; I can figure it out. After a moment of puzzling, I have the answer. _She's 51, _I think. According to the book, she is one of the worst liars to have ever won the Hunger Games. Apparently she nearly got killed by her allies when they realized she was planning to betray them, but she fought her way out of it.

That's possibly more disturbing than Coyle the bastard. This woman has no problem murdering her _friends. She probably enjoys it, _I decide, clutching the book in my sweaty palms. _It says here she was reaped, but... _I flip over the book and read the name of the author. _How can I trust Celina Periwinkle? They could be working together! This could all be a ploy to get me to trust them... and then..._

Somehow, I manage to calm down. This can't be a ploy directed at me. This book isn't even _mine. _My older sister Stephanie borrowed it from a friend once and never returned it.

The likelihood of my being reaped is quite small, but I decide that, on the off chance I _am _chosen, I won't be trusting Miss Olivine Trikle, or Mister Coyle Reid. An ally killer and a bastard are hardly prime candidates for mentors.

Of course, there's also the chance that if I am reaped, it will be after District Three has gotten another Victor. If this Victor is a girl, and if she's a respectable, decent person, I'll be alright. _But I've never met anyone respectable or decent, _I remind myself. _Apart from my family, I suppose. But I doubt Stephanie could win the Games. _It's a sad fact, but very true. Stephanie cares an awful lot about looking beautiful and attracting male attention, but she doesn't care about much else.

Thinking about my sister dying in the Hunger Games is the _worst _thing to do when I'm trying to relax before the reapings. Thinking about the likelihood of my being reaped (which is very small) should help, but it doesn't. Stephanie has eleven more slips in there than I do. It doesn't seem like a lot, but it is.

Still. All you need is one slip to get picked, and I certainly have more than one.

With a sigh, I lean against the old couch, picking at the cover of the book. It's a collage of every single Victor's face. None of them are smiling. It's rather eerie.

As I pick, something thin and silvery tumbles from between the pages and lands in my lap. Curious, I hold it up to my face. It's a disc, totally circular, shimmering in my hands. Carefully, I lay it down on my knee. _Getting fingerprints on it will ruin it, _I muse, pinching a fold of my sweater and using that to capture the disc. Awkwardly, I stand to my feet and sidle towards the television. I'm not used to moving so slowly and I nearly trip because of the pace, but I make it eventually.

Most televisions have disc players, but they are obsolete as most people don't have discs to play. _This book _must _have come from the Capitol, _I decide. _But how would Stephanie's friend have gotten it? _Then I shiver. I have my suspicions about Stephanie's friend. She's a strange girl. Maybe even a psychotic one. I'd bet my life on it.

I slip the disc into the player and step back. For a moment the player shudders and I hear a faint whining coming from its internal machinery. Then an image flickers to life on the screen.

"Welcome to the audio guide of _The Victors!" _shouts a cheerful-looking Capitol woman. She sports gigantic (fake) breasts and a smile so wide it looks as though her cheeks were split to make room for it. "Pick any Victor you want and get behind-the-scenes footage of their Games experience!"

The title screen is sectioned off by district. I pick up my remote and select District Three. I then have an option between Coyle Reid and Olivine Trikle. After a moment's consideration, I choose Olivine. I'm only being cautious. If I'm reaped (I won't be, of course, but if I _am) _she's the one who will probably be my mentor.

For a moment, the screen is blank. Heavy breathing can be heard. An image bursts into life; specks of dirt spiral through the air in slow motion, while a tanned arm dripping with blood flexes. As the screen zooms out, the footage speeds up, until I am watching Olivine Trikle, in real time, murdering her allies.

I sit frozen on the couch, with a deeply furrowed brow. My nostrils are flared slightly. A strand of dark brown hair has fallen into my green eyes, but I can't find the strength in me to brush it away.

Onscreen, Olivia takes the head of an ashy-haired boy and rams it into a tree, again and again until blood and bits of bone stick to her skin. When the cannon sounds, she whirls and tosses the dead boy at her older ally, who grunts as he is knocked to the ground by a still-warm corpse. The sound abruptly cuts out. "Olivine Trikle is a bit of an anomaly," says a somber female voice that I recognize. _Darjeeling Masters, Head Gamemaker. _My fingernails dig into the base of my palms and I grin a bit. _Not anymore. _If Capitol television is to believed, Darjeeling is dead. How she died, I can't say. Probably got torn to bits by a Capitol mob. They try to hide that side of the Capitol from us, but I can tell. I know. Behind those fake smiles is something sinister, just waiting to attack...

Not that the people here in District Three are much better. But these Capitol people pretend to be stupid in order to get me off my guard, I think. Here, nobody pretends.

Pretending or not pretending, I'm wary of everyone. You never know who's a killer, who's a rapist, who's a fiend. If you assume that everyone falls into one of these categories, you'll never be surprised.

I haven't been paying attention, but it seems as though Olivine has annihilated her alliance. Darjeeling Masters' voice in the background comments on Olivine's upbringing, how her father beat her bloody until Olivine learned how to beat back. Her voice is cold and unsympathetic. My lip curls. _She thinks nothing of it, _I realize. _That's... depraved. _Such depravity can mean only one thing. Darjeeling, at least, was certainly a killer. As Head Gamemaker, district children died at her hand, but I imagine that her servants and those that displeased her fell at her feet as well. I wonder how she killed them. I wonder what she would do to me if she ever caught me.

_I'm glad she's dead, _I decide, settling my nervous hands in my lap. _She can't get me if she's dead._

The footage has moved on to the first of many interviews Olivine would have to sit through. This is the interview that takes place directly after her Victory. To my surprise, she doesn't seem particularly happy about it. Her expression is mild at best, brewing at worst. "Olivine has always had a sullen disposition," Darjeeling remarks. "This is partly the reason she received only one sponsor gift during her entire Games, the whip that would bring her to victory." A picture of the whip is shown. It is a sinuous length of leather, the black hilt polished and gleaming. It looks almost too fine to be used on a person, but it seems that Olivine had no such qualms.

_She's a monster, _I decided, pressing the button on the remote that turns off the television. _She's a real monster._

For a few moments, I sit staring at the blank screen, hands twitching in my lap. In my mind I can see that leather coiling around my throat. Olivine looks down at me with her dead eyes as she pulls the whip tighter and tighter around my pale flesh, my skin darkening with blood.

This hasn't helped at all. I'm filled with nervous anticipation now.

_If I get reaped, I'll be dead before I even make it to the Capitol, _I think, and laugh, slightly hysterically, at the irony of it all.

* * *

**Isis Mortici, 16**

**District Two**

"Tell me where it hurts," says my father.

It isn't supposed to be like this. I have several hours left before the reapings, and I ought to be training. That's what my mother and father should want me to be doing, anyway, and I'd like to show them what I've learned. I'm sixteen, two years younger than most volunteers, but they think I'm ready. I want them to _know _I'm ready.

I woke up this morning with every intention to put on a show. I was planning on the standard fighting, of course, possibly with my father. Then I was going to do some cartwheels, because I like cartwheels, and I was considering doing a dance, but that wouldn't exactly be relevant and it'd probably piss Dad off. I hadn't _quite _crossed it off the list, but it was under serious consideration.

But here I sit, twitching in the kitchen chair, staring into my father's eyes. They look like chunks of glittering black ice (not that black ice exists, of course.) As soon as I came downstairs for breakfast, he sat me down in the chair, refused all my protestations about the performance I had planned, and started asking me questions about my face.

That isn't entirely accurate. It's not my face he's so interested in, it's the Trigeminal Neuralgia. The pain. Even thinking about it makes me shudder a bit. I've never been stabbed in the face with ice picks for several minutes, but during my episodes, that's the only metaphor I can think of.

"It's only ever on one side of my face," I explain. Dad has never taken a real interest in this before, beyond getting me medication to help me ignore the pain so as to truly focus on training. "You have to touch right under my eyes, see," I explain. "The side you touch is the side that hurts." I narrow my eyes slightly. "Why the sudden interest? You never cared about it before, Dad." He's up to something. Judging by the way his lips thin, he is annoyed that I know, but he was planning on telling me soon enough.

"I'll tell you soon enough," he says, and that makes me grin.

"Bingo!" I exclaim, leaning back in the chair and making a finger gun, which I proceed to fire in his general direction. "1-0, Isis Mortici in the _lead!" _

He ignores me. Most people do, when I start making jokes. Apparently they "don't make sense" or something.

"Come," he says, getting to his feet. I stand up as well, tossing a thick wave of orange hair over my shoulders. My hair is perhaps _too _long- it falls nearly underneath my elbows, which makes it painfully easy to grab hold of in a fight. But I'll cut it off if it comes to that. I like my hair, but I'm not quite ready to die for it.

"Well," I mutter under my breath. "Not unless the Capitol conditioner is as good as everyone says it is. Then I probably _will _die for my sexy, sexy hair." Dad ignores me again. He and mom are quite used to my ramblings by now.

We walk into the yard, where most of my at-home training takes place. It's a little place, which Dad says is good for fighting. I have nowhere to run, after all.

Impatiently Dad crosses over to the tree crowded in the corner and picks up a wooden practice sword which he tosses to me. I catch it easily, and pout. "This is kinda disappointing, Dad," I admit. "I had a really cool show planned for you. We do this every _day."_

He ignores me, picking up his own practice sword and holding it in his palm, testing the weight of it. "Which side troubles you more?" he asks suddenly.

"Right," I answer automatically. Left hurts just as bad, but it usually goes away in seconds. Right can last for up to five minutes. I go cold. "Oh, _no," _I exclaim. "C'mon, Dad. Don't make me do _that."_

He glares at me. "You received extensive training that should allow you to ignore pain. This is your final test, if you will. Do well, Isis." It is a cold warning. I doubt he will stop me from volunteering if I fail, but he won't be happy with me. I swallow hard.

"Better not mess this up, then," I mumble, quietly enough so that only I can hear. I hold my sword loosely in my right hand. Slowly, I lift my left hand to my face. My index and middle finger press together, and I jab them sharply into the skin under my right eye.

The pain starts immediately. I can feel it flashing through my nerves like ice, freezing the blood in my veins. It hurts like nothing else can hurt. How can he expect me to fight like this? I can barely _see!_

It doesn't matter, because he throws himself forward, wooden sword whirling in a deadly arc. I raise my sword defensively and block his blow. Vibrations run up and down my arms. As my head shudders from the impact, the pain intensifies. Sweat pours from underneath my bangs and I grit my teeth so hard I can feel them scraping together.

My father attempts a jab to my belly, but I throw myself backwards and avoid the blow. He follows up with a slice to my ribs that I only barely manage to counter. "Losing your touch?" he goads, as he strains against me.

"You'll lose _your _touch..." I growl, between my gritted teeth, "when I cut your hands off! With my wooden sword!" As I say the words, I pull back my leg and kick him in the knee. He stumbles, and I dance away.

Tears of pain are pouring out of both eyes, but the right eye has closed on its own accord and won't open. The pain... daggers and needles pierce my skin. It's as though I am being flayed, slowly, carefully, with loving detail being paid to every _millimeter _of the right side of my face. I imagine that any injury pales in comparison to this.

Dad is more cautious now. We circle each other warily, swords extended in front of us. "This... is... a ploy," I realize, whispering to myself so quietly that my father can only hear the hiss of air moving through my pursed lips. "Gotta end it... 'fore I get tired."

A headache has blossomed in my cranium to go along with the crushing pain. My lips curl down on the right side, suddenly impossible to keep still. It feels as though they are being crushed to death with an iron poker. I know it's not real, but it sure as hell _feels _real.

I can't hold out much longer. I have to get on the offensive, _now, _or I'm going to lose. So decided, I lunge forward and duck under the swing my father sends my way. He turns his body to the right, well aware that my right side is clearly weakest right now, but I am anticipating this. I turn so quickly that clods of dirt fly up from the grass. He stabs, and I manage to catch the blow on the hilt of my sword. I wrench his sword out of his hands, and it flies over my head.

Immediately, my weapon is pressed to his solar plexus. "Make that 2-0, Isis Mortici now in a _commanding _lead..." I stop talking because the pain in my lips is now excruciating. _I won, _I think, and drop the sword. Seconds later, I fall to my knees.

Dad knows I can't hear him. Instead of attempting to speak to me, he reaches into his pocket and produces a pill bottle. He unscrews it for me, well aware that if he handed it over, I'd either attempt to take every single pill, or I'd drop them all over the ground because of my shaking hands.

I open my mouth obediently, although I start to whine because the pain is such that I can't see anything anymore but shapeless blobs. I can feel Dad press the pill against my tongue, and I swallow gratefully.

It takes a few moments for the pill to take effect. While I wait, I curl into the fetal position and hum Panem's anthem in my head. When the pain is reduced to a dull throb, I sit up and wipe the sweat and tears from my face. "I did good, huh?" I ask.

My father doesn't smile, but his eyes do soften a bit. "You did good," he agrees, offering me a hand. I take it and let him pull me to my feet. "Now wash and get dressed. Reapings are in an hour."

It's hardly loving. He barely even sounds proud.

But I smile anyway. _He thinks I can_ _win, _I realize. I'm certain of it.

_And if he thinks I can do it, I know I can._

* * *

**Stitchell Hemmingway, 18**

**District Eight**

"Hemmingway! I know you're out there, you miserable son of a bitch!"

I groan slightly. My eyes are sticky because I was just sleeping. Also, I think one of the dogs might have licked my face when I was asleep. It's too hard to remember all their names and definitely too hard to make up names for all of them, so I call them all "Woofus." It's like Rufus, but with "Woof" in it because that's the sound that dogs make! It's pretty funny when you think about it.

Right, somebody's yelling at me. I think it might by Lacey Tyrell. She owns all six of the dogs and they sleep in a pen outside her house. Because she's rich, she lives in the nice section of District Eight and has a big garden. Normally I wouldn't come here, but I really love spending time with the dogs. They like me too! They lick me all over when I come visit. Also, they all crowd around me when it's time to go to sleep, so I know they care.

I sit up in the grass and try to pull some twigs out of my hair. I don't wash it ever since Mom and Dad kicked me out of the house, so I basically have dreadlocks now. My friend Batiste says this makes me look "tough" but I always laugh when she says this. I'm not tough, I've never been in a fight in my life! I'm kinda strong but not that strong, and I don't have too many muscles, so I think that means I'm just average.

The dogs clamber around me, barking. It looks like they're excited? The door to Lacey's house is opening; she's coming out. She looks very angry; her eyebrows are scrunched together and her lips are so thin I can't even see them. Her cheeks are bright red.

Uh-oh. Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure Lacey told me to never sleep in the pen with the dogs ever again, or she would call the Peacekeepers. I don't really know what the Peacekeepers will do, but I know for a fact that nobody likes them and they get people in trouble. _I get into enough trouble at school! _I think, despairing. _I don't want to get in trouble outside school! That's not fair!_

Lacey has reached the pen and is now glaring down at me. "What the _hell _are you staring at?!" she snarls. "Just gonna sit there all day, huh?"

"N-no," I stammer. Her eyes narrow dangerously at that, and I find the words tumbling out of me against my will. "I'm really sorry Miss Lacey! I forgot! I know you said to never do it again, I know that now, but I forgot last night and Woofus wanted to see me so you should blame them too if you're gonna call the Peacekeepers. Also, I really can't get in trouble again because Mrs. Holloway at school said if I get one more check on my name they'll hold me back another grade!" I stare up at her with my narrow brown eyes as wide and pleading as I can make them. "Please, Miss Lacey! Please don't tell! I'll- I'll water your garden for you! Or play with Woofus! Or tell your fortune!" At her quizzical stare, I manage to pull the small glass globe from my front pocket. "I use it to tell fortunes," I explain, holding it tightly so my fumbling fingers don't let it go by mistake.

For a moment, Lacy just stands there. She doesn't look angry anymore. In fact, she looks a little bit sad, like she's feeling sorry for me. I wonder why.

"Fine," she says abruptly. "You want to make it up to me? Tell me my damn fortune." She reaches down, extending her hand. Wonderingly, I take it and allow her to pull me to my feet. Then I vault over the wire of the pen and land next to her, grinning crazily. I'm not in trouble! This is great news.

I move to put the ball in her hand, but she shakes her head. "Inside," she says, waving towards the house. My narrow eyes widen as huge as the biggest cogwheels in the biggest factory.

"In-inside?"

"Inside," she affirms, rolling her eyes. When I don't move, she grabs me by the sleeve and yanks me towards the house. "What are you wearing, anyway?" she complains. "I've never seen anyone wear a plaid overshirt over a black tank top with neon yellow polka dots. Where did you even _find _that?"

"They throw the ugly clothes out in the back of the factories," I explain patiently. "So I take them!"

That strange sad expression is back on her face. "You don't have a home? _Shit, _that's why you sleep in the damn pen."

"Well, yes," I say. "Sometimes the window to my old room is open so I sneak back in there, but it usually isn't."

She grimaces. "Your parents kicked you out? Big surprise." Then she seems to regret her words. "Ah, sorry. I didn't know..."

I don't know why she's sorry, but I'll be nice. "It's okay," I tell her. "I'm not mad." That's what people usually say after somebody else apologizes. I wouldn't know because people don't apologize to me very often, but I think I did it right.

Lacey bites her lip. "Sit," she commands. We're in a fancy kitchen with a nice table. I don't get it for a moment. I'm supposed to sit at the nice table? This has never happened before.

Lacey groans and pushes me into a chair. "Stubborn as hell," she complains. "Is that why you never told me?"

I am confused. "Never told you what?"

She looks like she wants to strangle something. Probably me. "Never told me you were _homeless, _dimwit! I've been acting like the world's biggest bitch for the longest time."

"No you weren't," I say, nervously fidgeting. "It's fine."

"It's not." She puts her head in her hands. "I thought you were acting... slow... to piss me off. But... that ain't an act. Is it?"

"Slow? I'm not slow. I'm not so fast, but I'm not _slow. _When did you see me running, anyway?"

Lacey looks at me for a moment. Her eyelid twitches. "... yeah," she decides. "Definitely not an act."

"I'm not a good actor," I tell her. She nods absentmindedly, getting to her feet and walking over to the icebox.

"Want some milk?" she asks, but doesn't wait for me to answer, choosing to fill two cups. She brings them back and puts one down in front of me while she sips from the other. "Are you hungry? Do you want food?"

I shake my head. "I can tell your fortune now," I remind her.

She seems surprised, like she forgot. "Forget about that. You don't need to-"

"I slept in the pen and you _said _not to," I remind her, taking out the glass ball and placing it between us. "I have to fix it."

Lacey doesn't look happy, but she nods and bites her lip again. I wonder if her lip hurts, because she bites it an awful lot.

"Put your hand on it," I tell her. Her hand is slender as a girl's, although she must be at least 30. She places it tentatively on the small glass ball, and I put my hand on hers. Her skin is extremely pale, and mine is much darker: but it's not _that _dark. I've seen people in District Eight with truly black skin, where mine is more of a light brown. I like the color. Some of the dogs are sort of the same color. Maybe that's why they like me so much!

"Close your eyes," I tell her. She does, and I do the same. My fortune telling is silly and I know it's not real, but I like to look at the inside of my eyelids and talk about what I see there. Plus, the more mystical it sounds, the more people are interested, and what's more mystical than the stuff behind your eyelids?

I can see a sort of blue-ish color, so I guess I'll start there. "Winter's gonna be bad this year," I tell her. "You're gonna slip and hurt your shin."

"Goodie," says Lacey, sounding gloomy.

"Shh, I'm not done." I squint harder, trying to see what's right in front of me. "I see smoke," I say. "There's a lot of people running. I guess you must be there too, but I don't see you. I wonder what they're running from?"

"You're the mystic," Lacey reminds me.

"I'm trying to figure it out!" After a moment of consideration, I have my answer. "They're running from something... _black." _And then, because I know it will sound cool, I add, "beware the darkness."

For a minute, Lacey doesn't say anything. Then she pulls her hand back. "Freaky," she remarks. "I mean, I don't believe in any of that fortune bullshit. But you did pretty good."

I smile. That's nice of her to say. Then I grimace, 'cause I ought to thank her but I don't know how to go about it-

Lacey clears her throat awkwardly. "You better go, Hemmingway- Shit, I don't even know your first name."

"Stitchell."

"Okay, Stitchell, you better go. The reapings are going to start soon." I look at her. Reapings? Do I still have to go to those? I forgot.

"Reapings," she says again, loudly. "If you don't go they'll hurt you." She sighs, a bit noisily. "Come on, we'll go together. Okay?"

"Okay!" Miss Lacey is being awfully nice today. Normally she throws stuff at me and yells, but apparently because I'm "slow" (I still don't know what she means by that) she has to be nice to me! That's good to know for the future.

So I'm feeling pretty good as I get up from the table and follow Lacey Tyrell into the bright sunlight.

* * *

**Asher Krytes, 16**

**District Five**

"You're wrong," says Avery, without looking up from her book. Her blue eyes are narrowed slightly in concentration. Avery has never had the patience for reading. I'm different. I read the most, I _know _the most. And I know I'm right.

"No," I tell her, putting my hands on my hips. "I'm _right. _ I'm definitely right."

"Okay," says Avery. It's clear that she doesn't really care. "Tell me how, big brother."

"Fine! I will." I take a deep, calming breath. "I read Carter's diary and-"

Avery finally puts the book down, obviously interested in spite of herself. "Tell me you didn't. Carter would _kill _you."

"I definitely did, and he definitely won't. Alright, so I found it under his bed (so much for hiding it well, am I right?) so I decided I might as well read it a bit. And it turns out it was just a bunch of weird senseless notes about something, but I'm pretty sure it was about killing Peacekeepers. No, I'm _very _sure. Practically 100% sure-"

Avery waves a hand. Her eyes are intense and glittering. "Get to the _point, _Asher."

"I'm trying!" I protest. "Anyway, there's a lot of stuff about staged attacks and a good deal about someone he calls "K" who I think is his leader or something, and then there's a note about the "new base," and it's the last note, and after that there aren't any more. And the new base is _right here, _Avery. The new base is our _basement!"_

For a few minutes, Avery doesn't say anything. Finally, she looks me in the eyes. "You mean to tell me that our beloved brother Carter Krytes is hosting a secret rebellion in our _basement?!" _She throws her hands up in disgust. "At least make it believable, big brother."

"It's believable!" I reply hotly. "First of all, we have a big basement." Avery laughs at that, but I frown at her until she stops. "We have a big basement," I repeat. "Plenty of room to plan meetings, talk strategy. The walls and the door are thick so they could talk as loudly as they wanted to. Plus, the maintenance tunnel for the electric cables is down there. I bet a couple rebels could fit through there."

"This is ridiculous," says Avery, but she sounds uncertain.

"No it's not," I continue. "No one can go into the basement, anyway. Ever since dad got sick..." I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. Dad... it's not good. I think he's got a couple years left in him, at best. He got sick last year and he's been getting so much worse since then. Mom had to get a job to support us, but it isn't enough. I had to take as much tesserae as humanly possible. Avery got a job, I think: she comes home with money sometimes, and I have no idea where she gets it. I don't really want to know, to be honest. All Carter comes home with are bruises.

"...which makes sense!" I crow. Seeing Avery's raised eyebrow, I hasten to explain. "Carter's always coming home covered in bruises. It has to be because he's gotten beaten up in the protests, or even by vengeful Peacekeepers! That's why he's out all the time."

"I guess," says Avery slowly.

"Right," I continue. "So, Carter's the only one who has a key to the basement, because he's the man of the house now-"

"Mom has a key too," Avery interrupts.

I think about it for a moment. "Yeah, but she never ever goes down there. It fits."

Avery begins to nod. "Okay, fine," she says. "You win, Asher. It makes sense. Happy?"

"Super happy," I tell her.

She grins. "Excellent. Let's go down there."

My smile fades. "I... I don't think that's a good idea, Avery. If there are rebels down there, they'll definitely kill us. I mean, Carter's their friend, but who are we? Just a couple of chumps with a flashlight maybe, if we can find one, and even if we bring a crowbar or something they'll still shoot the shit out of us. I know you think you're tough but you're not _that _tough, and I'm definitely not that tough. Let's wait 'til Carter comes home and we can ask him. Or we can hit him over the head, tie him up, and make him tell us what he knows. Or we could-"

"Or you could shut up," says Avery drily. "C'mon, Asher, use your head. You don't think they're down there right _now_, do you?"

"Of course not!" I snap, even though I kind of automatically assumed that they were. "But if they _are..."_

"They're not," says Avery, with a small sigh. That rankles me a bit. _I'm still the smart one, _I remind myself. _I just got a bit carried away for a minute there. But I'm still highly intelligent._

"We should bring a crowbar _and _a flashlight, just in case they are down there and they want to kill us or torture us or whatever."

"Okay," says Avery, seeing the sense in my plan. "Wait there for a min', brother. I'll get the stuff." She hurries off and I clasp my hands in my lap, leaning back against the couch. Truth be told, I was really only in Carter's room to get my mind off what's going to happen later. All three of the Kryte children are eligible to be reaped: Carter is eighteen, I'm sixteen, and Avery is fourteen. All well within reaping age. I have the most slips by far, as I'm the only one who took tesserae. Carter has the second most, and Avery is a distant third. I know I won't get picked so it hardly makes me the brave one, but facts _are _facts.

I pick at a loose thread in my t-shirt as I wait for Avery. Like all my t-shirts, it hangs off me awkwardly. I have the skinniest, boniest frame I've ever seen. I always tell people that I'm like a walking, talking, breathing skeleton. That usually elicits a couple of laughs.

"Back," Avery announces, pulling me roughly off the couch and dumping the flashlight into my arms. "Try not to drop it, big brother."

I make a face at her. "I won't," I say, even though I've certainly been known to drop important things in the past. Once Carter got me to help carry his final project to school and I dropped it into a puddle. I had bruises for weeks after.

"Did you take Mom's key?" I ask my sister as we walk through the kitchen, towards the basement door. She nods absentmindedly before pulling said key out of her pocket and inserting it into the lock. For a moment everything is still, and then there is the soft click of the door unlocking. Cautiously, Avery turns the handle and opens the door. The stairs leading below are cloaked in darkness. "Power's out," I tell her. "So the rebels are definitely using the maintenance tunnels as an entrance. That's a pretty commendable-"

"_Shh," _warns Avery. "Put on the flashlight, Asher."

I stab at the button with my thumb and the flashlight flickers on. It's a dim light but it cuts through the darkness gathering on the stairs like a beacon.

Avery nods. "Let's go," she says. "You first, guy with the flashlight."

"Fine," I say, stepping gingerly onto the first step. As I descend, I notice how warm it is. "It's stuffy down here," I comment. "I hope the rebels are never overdressed."

"I wish you'd be quiet and concentrate," Avery complains.

I reach the bottom step and turn the flashlight's beam towards the ground, illuminating my long, bony feet. When Avery reaches my side, I take a deep breath and flip up the beam.

And then I exhale. Slowly, I step forward.

Avery follows suit. "Well," she says finally. "I guess you were right after all."

There is a table resting in the middle of the basement which I know for a fact was never there before. Chairs are crowded around it, and the table itself is covered in papers. Carefully, I pick one up. "It's a letter," I comment, and begin to read aloud.

_"To my dearest Katarya, _it says. _I am counting the hours until we can finally be joined as man and wife. Every day spent away from you is a day wasted. I used to think the Capitol beautiful, but you are a thousand times more radiant. I hope you haven't grown sick of these little notes, but I think of you constantly and I cannot stop writing them. With love, your Qoro." _My eyes widen. "Qoro! I know that name! Qoro's the Head Peacekeeper in some other district!"

"How do you know?" Avery asks curiously.

I think I saw it in a history book. "I know lots of things," I reply airily. "I can't be expected to remember every single one of my numerous sources."

Avery rolls her eyes and picks up another piece of paper. "This one's a list of names," she exclaims. "Silver Bonaparte, Orion Sicilia, Ina Makina, Sia Micourt, Carter Krytes..." She pauses. "You were right," she breathes, letting the paper flutter from her hand. "He's involved in... whatever this is."

For a moment we stare at each other. Then, somewhere in the darkness behind me, something creaks.

Neither of us have moved faster in our lives. Sometime during our mad dash up the stairs I drop the flashlight, but don't stop to retrieve it. When we reach the top, Avery slams the door shut and locks it with a shaking hand.

Slowly, she removes the key. We are both covered in sweat, and are both trembling. Somewhere in the house, an alarm rings. "The reapings," says Avery numbly. "We have to go."

"What about... that? We can't just leave that."

"We have to. For now." She frowns. "After the reapings... we're going to figure out something to do with that, Asher. Promise?"

"Promise," I reply, and per tradition, take her hand in mine.

Somehow, with the looming and terrible fear of what lies in the basement and what it means for our family, the reapings don't seem quite so bad anymore.

* * *

**Acacia Rhododendron, 15**

**District Eleven**

There are three rules that I have to remember. Out here in the orchard, with the sun baking down on my brown skin, the rules are all I should be thinking about. I know the reapings are going to be held in the next hour or so (and the thought fills me with dread) but if I force myself to think about the rules, and nothing but the rules, I should be alright.

_Rule One: No Talking._

This isn't a difficult rule to follow. There's hardly any time for talking given the amount of work we have to get done by the end of the day. Besides, I don't know anyone who would risk having their tongue pulled out, and that is the penalty for idle chatter. I've never seen it happen, or even heard of it happening, but all the same we keep our mouths shut.

_Rule Two: No Stealing._

This rule is more harshly enforced. You steal something, anything, and they'll kill you. This has been known to happen. Again, it's something I've never personally witnessed, but I heard shouting once, wails of "I didn't mean to take it! I didn't-" Then there was the harsh crack of a gunshot, and after that nothing but silence.

And there was the time with father...

But I wasn't there for that.

_Rule Three: Don't Damage the Merchandise._

The peaches are more important than I am. Our overseer has drilled this into our heads a thousand times. He's a kindly man, and I doubt he'd truly care if I dropped a peach, or squeezed it too hard and broke its skin. But the Capitol cares. If we send them too many bad peaches, they'll send ussome kind of punishment. So I treat each peach with care, and make sure to place them gently in my basket, which I never swing.

I reach up to wipe the sweat off my brow. It is unbearably hot this summer. The peach trees offer shade, but to reach the highest fruits I have to brush the lower branches away, exposing myself to the sun. My skin is dark and I generally don't get burnt, but I've seen people with lighter complexions in agony after a day's work.

When I was younger, I might have gone topless to the orchard. The younger children generally work sans clothing in the heat. But I'm much too old to be parading around in my underwear. That kind of display could get me in a lot of trouble, the kind of trouble every girl fears. I'd rather not think about it. A girl in my grade got pregnant because of a situation like that, and I haven't been able to forget about it.

Standing on the tips of my toes, I manage to gently pull a peach from its branch. It slips between my fingers but I reach down and catch it again. Dropping a peach is a dangerous and stupid offense. When I was younger I would do it on occasion. But now I can't remember the last time I dropped one. I've gotten too used to catching them.

Absentmindedly, I slip the peach into the basket and reach up for another one. My fingers strain, slipping along bark and twig until they brush against something warm and solid. _That's not a peach._

With a yell of surprise, I stumble backwards, somehow managing to avoid spilling all of the peaches I've collected. Shaking, I hold the basket out in front of me. "W-who's there?" I call. "Come out, I'm warning you! It'll be bad for you if you don't!"

After a moment, a face peers out from between branches, and relief settles in my stomach. "Wort," I breathe, putting my hands on my hips. "You scared me."

The little boy grins at me cheekily. "Hi, Acacia!" he calls. "Lilac says hi too."

Lilac is my best friend. It kills us that she has to work in the pear orchard and I'm stuck doing peaches, but her younger brother Wort serves as our intermediary. He works with the peaches too, and carries messages back and forth between us when we can't meet up directly after work, like today. As soon as I'm done here, I'll be off to the reapings. After that, I'll come straight home and perhaps I'll even take a bath. I could really use one.

"You should get back to work, sweetheart," I tell him, glancing back and forth nervously. I don't really want to tell him about the tongue rule, but I will if I have to do it to protect him. "You're only supposed to bring messages when we're done with work, remember?"

"Yeah, but I _am _done," complains Wort. "I got all the peaches an' _everything."_

I have to put a stop to this right now. "I'm glad you're done, Wort, but I still have a lot of work to do," I whisper. "Please, sweetie? Please go back and wait for me?"

For a moment, his face is impassive and I hold my breath. He's only eight, just young enough that he might refuse me simply because he feels like it. But, to my immense relief, he nods and moves to climb down the tree. He swings from a branch like a monkey as he places his feet in all the right places to easily descend the tree.

And then he misses a foothold.

It happens so quickly. One second, Wort is clambering down, whistling cheerfully under his breath. The next second, he's rolling on the ground, eyes bulging from their sockets. And he's screaming, a high thin sound filled with pain.

I locate the reason almost immediately. His arm is bent to an unnatural angle. I heard the snap when he fell. _It's broken, _I think numbly.

Carefully, I place my basket on the ground before rushing over to him. Tears are streaming down his cheeks as he screams. His eyes are screwed shut and the pain is written all over his face. "Wort," I whisper desperately. I'm amazed that no one has come yet, but they will. "Come on, Wort. You have to sit up."

He doesn't hear me. Panicking, I kneel down beside him and wrap my arms around his torso, gently pulling him into a sitting position. He wails into my ear, and I have to resist the urge to instinctively tighten my grip on him. "It'll be okay," I breathe, smoothing his hair with my free hand. "Everything's going to be just fine."

I can hear footsteps moving rapidly towards me. I begin to breathe heavily, and my palms bead up with sweat. If they find me here and I'm not working, I'm not sure what will happen. _Don't stop working _isn't even a rule, it's a given. Granted, I have a little boy here that needs help, but if the wrong Peacekeepers come it might not even matter.

I hear them before I see them. A twig crackles behind me. My head swivels and I take in the sight of three Peacekeepers standing in a line, all males. Their faces are impassive and chilly. My throat goes dry, and I swallow nervously. Wort continues to scream, and the Peacekeeper at the end of the line looks down quizzically.

"He's hurt," I blurt. "He needs help. His arm's broken."

"How did this happen?" asks the Peacekeeper in the middle. He makes no move to help.

My hands tighten around Wort's ribs. "It doesn't _matter _how it happened!" I snap. "We need to get him help right now!" I pale slightly at the look on the middle Peacekeeper's face, but I stand my ground. "I'll tell you everything that happened as soon as he's taken care of," I breathe, "and not a moment before."

The Peacekeeper steps forward. His salt-and-pepper hair seems to glisten in the hot sun. "You'll tell me _now," _he says threateningly, one hand caressing the nightstick at his belt. "Am I understood?"

I pale. He's much older than me, and he's a Peacekeeper to boot. I'm naturally uncomfortable around adults, and Peacekeepers are worse. But if I don't do something right now, Wort's arm will be nigh impossible to fix. Tears prick the back of my eyes and I dig my fingernails into my palms. _What do I do...?_

"Ah, come off it, Moore."

Everyone turns to look at the Peacekeeper at the end of the line. He only shrugs slightly, gazing back with chilly eyes. "Kid's hurt," he says, by way of explanation. "He probably fell or something."

Moore snorts. "What would you have me do, Granite?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake- you think girly over there broke the kid's arm? You're an idiot, Moore." At this, Moore snarls and reaches for his nightstick, but Granite simply raises an eyebrow. "Go on. Attack me. I can't _wait _to hear what our superiors have to say."

Moore goes white in the face. His lips press together until they are thin enough to be invisible. "Have it your way." His words are clipped. "Come, Radon." They turn to go, and then Moore looks back with real anger in his face. "And somebody shut that _damn _kid up!"

Wort is still screaming. The moment was so tense that the noise faded into the background for me. Hurriedly, I press my lips to Wort's feverish brow and hold his uninjured hand. That gains us a brief respite from the crying, but he quickly begins to moan. When I look back up, Moore and Radon have gone. Granite remains, looking down at us with an expression that might be pitying.

"Sorry about that," he says, kneeling next to Wort's wriggling form. "Moore's a bit of a dick. He means well, though." Absently, Granite moves my hands out of the way. "He needs a doctor."

"He can't afford it," I exclaim breathlessly. "His mother- if you could just get him to his _mother..."_

"Consider it done," says Granite, nodding affably. He scoops Wort into his arms as though the boy weighs nothing. "Her name?"

"Rose Baudelaire. Please, you have to hurry." My heart is thumping in my chest. I have never spoken to a Peacekeeper like this. Never. Not since...

_"... he stole," says the white-clothed man, standing in front of my mother. "Four pears. We had to put him down..."_

I come back to the present with a mostly inaudible gasp. The Peacekeeper is moving away from me quickly. Every step marks an increase in Wort's wailing. In a moment they are lost in the trees, and the wailing voice gets quieter.

I remain crouched in the dirt by the base of the tree. My basket rests next to me, and I put a hand on it protectively. The fruit inside has already begun to ripen, and the sweet scent makes my stomach rumble. But I can't eat it. Oh, how well I know that I can't eat it...

_"Had to put him down," the Peacekeeper says. "He was your husband, I take it?" And Mom doesn't even answer, just nods and begins to cry. _

_"No," I breathe, stumbling forward. My hands grab at the Peacekeeper's arm and I clutch it, squeezing my fingers into his skin. "No! You're lying! You're lying! You're-"_

_He slaps me across the face, hard. I stumble backwards and the tears begin to fall, dripping down my cheeks. "You're lying," I whisper, despondent._

_The Peacekeeper's face is almost sympathetic. "I'm not lying," he says calmly, "but you can believe what you like, girl. Whatever makes you happy..."_


	3. Animal Farm

**Hey everybody. Yo. Sup. How goes it?**

**I wanted to tell everyone that my friend Shadowed Stars has a SYOT and he needs tributes for it. He would greatly appreciate it if you would submit. And since we're bros, I'd appreciate it by default!**

**Haha, that's funny because I'm a girl :)**

**Anyway, enjoy the chapter. Happy readings!**

* * *

_Reapings_

* * *

**Ivory Margueax, 17**

**District One**

My gaze travels skyward as the first raindrop falls from the clouds like a tear.

I sigh and look to the ground. The white concrete contrasts sharply with my black shoes. I am all in black for this important day. _"It's like you're going to a funeral, dear," _my mother told me this morning. But she was already walking away before I could answer.

I would have told her that I prefer my outfits to be monochrome. I look more elegant that way, and it's clear that I care about my appearance. I might have worn white today, or even red, but black was the obvious choice. Black is the color of _death_, people say, and I want to be associated with it when I walk onto that stage.

Besides, my hair is black too, and the whole ensemble looks rather nice.

Before long the rain is dripping down my face, plastering my short hair against my pale cheek. My name is color of my skin, some people say. I let them joke. Sometimes I sniff a bit, pretending to be hurt, and they'll apologize.

It's so easy to play with people. Everyone likes to think that they're special, that their emotions are unique to them, but that isn't true. Emotions are wired into us just like all other bodily functions, and they can be played. It is even easier to use someone's emotions against them than it is to use their body. We learned all about poisons in training, and how easily competitors can be debilitated that way, but all through the lessons I was thinking how much easier (and how much less risky) it would have been to trick them. _My ankle hurts; will you come here and check it? I think there's a tribute down there, lean over and get a good look! Come over here and fight me like a man, or are you too cowardly? _Dead, dead, dead. If you know their mind, you can kill them.

I raise a slim hand and shield my eyes from the rain. They are heavily made-up and the last thing I want the people of Panem to see is a volunteer with running mascara.

Around me, the other seventeen-year old girls chatter amongst themselves, and occasionally shoot me jealous glances. When it was announced that I was the chosen volunteer, there was a bit of a hue and cry: I am only seventeen, and the few eighteen-year old girls who might have volunteered are going to miss out on the opportunity because of me. But I'm better than them. It wouldn't be fair to District One if a mediocre eighteen year old volunteered, when they might have had a truly excellent tribute.

I smile a little to myself. I'm not generally so immodest, but on this big day I can let it slide.

The stage is protected by a thick blue tarp. The raindrops slap against it with identical hisses, and drip from the ends of the tarp onto the twelve-year olds in the front. I can see them grumbling and trying to cover their hair from here.

District One's Mayor finally takes the stage. She is a cold woman with thin lips, and she reads the Games Constituent quickly and efficiently. When she is finished, she plows right through the obligatory clapping and announces the escort. "Will Piston Quartzite, our esteemed escort, please take the stage." The way she says it, it isn't a question.

From some speakers located around the square, a wailing sort of song begins to play. I suppose the point is to get us excited, but I find it annoying. As the Mayor slips to the side, a hulking figure storms up the side stairs and makes its way to the microphone.

I grimace slightly. District One's escort is somewhat overenthusiastic. I suppose the Capitolians enjoy such overacting, but I find it faintly embarrassing. I consider myself a master actress, and anything less than perfection in that department makes me a little bit sad.

"Hello _District One!" _Piston howls into the microphone. When the crowd roars back, a gratified smile spreads across his ugly face. It's a bit rude to think of him as ugly, but he really, truly is. He has more muscle than I think is physically possible, and veins pop in his forehead every time he opens his mouth to speak. His hair is black and short, like mine, but messy where mine is tamed. At the moment he is wearing a sort of leather tank top that reveals far too much of his skin than I ever cared to see. This year, his skin is orange and red and patterned with flames, most likely in honor of last year's arena. I shiver a bit, thinking of that arena. Fire. It was all on fire. I've always been afraid of a fire claiming my things. It's a silly fear, but I've worked so hard for what I've earned that I can't bear to think about losing it.

"It's that big moment you've all been waiting for… _it's time we saw the tributes for District One! Give it up!" _As always, the noise is somewhat devastating. I glower a bit, hunching my shoulders. The rain goes on, splashing onto my boots. It can't drown out the excitement, though. The air is almost dripping with tension. I can practically smell it.

A strain of music begins to play while Piston capers over to the girl's reaping bowl, clapping his hands. A few of the twelve year olds join in, but the rest of us just watch. It's acceptable to cheer, but clapping in time to a rhythm is just embarrassing.

"Can I get a drumroll?" Piston calls. Thankfully said drumroll is piped in through the sound system, because I'm not sure if anyone would have responded to it. Piston waits for half a second before reaching in and snagging a fistful of papers. He raises them over the bowl and lets them trickle between his fat fingers, one by one.

The drama is pointless. We're all aware that someone is going to volunteer. Even as Piston howls "Luzure Bordeaux!" I am already standing at attention, ready to move.

Luzure emerges from the sixteen year olds. She is a lithe, pretty girl with flowing blonde hair and acceptable fashion choices. I haven't seen her at the training center, however: it's clear she wasn't built for the arena. She moves onto the stage and immediately begins making faces at the cameras. She knows she isn't going to the arena. _I am._

"And now…" says Piston. "Who's gonna be this year's volunteer! Come on, people!"

The crowd begins to cheer as I step out of my section. "I volunteer," I call. Immediately, more of that ridiculous music begins playing, and Piston wildly beckons me towards the stage, practically shoving Luzure down the stairs in his attempt to make room for me. _And so ends her fame, _I think, feeling a tiny bit satisfied. _Half a minute in front of the cameras. Perhaps they'll show my volunteering on the Victory recaps, though, and then she'll be in the spotlight once more, if only for a moment._

I move quickly up the stairs and try not to flinch when Piston shoves me towards a microphone. "Go on and tell everybody the name of _District One's go girl!"_

"Ivory Margueax," I announce, and the smile that drifts across my face is real. Here, hidden from the hissing rain, I stare out at the roaring crowd and feel my heart begin to pound. _Yes, _I think, and grin. _This is where I belong. I made the right choice._

"Give it up for Ivory!" Piston calls, and the crowd cheers. I can barely see the individuals anymore; the crowd is a singular organism, and every time Piston howls at it, it howls back. _And here I am, about to fight for it, even die for it. _That thought wipes the smile off my face. _… No. I can't think like that. I'm not going to die._

I step back as Piston reclaims the microphone. "We've got our lady, so who's next, boys? Lemme hear ya!" As the boys howl and cheer and stomp their feet, Piston marches over to the boys' bowl and plunges his hand inside. He repeats the dramatic pause before calling Pantheon Valjean to the stage. The boy is young, and grim. I'm not sure why. We all know who will be volunteering…

His voice rings out, loud and clear, before I can finish the thought. "I volunteer." He sounds smug, the cocky bastard. I grit my teeth but manage to keep the smile in place.

Gander Gleam. He believes he is Panem's gift to women. Unfortunately, he is not entirely wrong: he is by far the most attractive boy to frequent the training center. He is a year older than me and I'm sure he will bring it up more than once before this is over.

He is also, from what I've seen of him, incredibly unpleasant. Vain, cocky, conceited, arrogant… The list goes on. He does have one thing going for him, however: I have seen him absolutely crush people who have embarrassed him, people he feels deserve retribution. He is apparently quite vengeful.

I know all this from simple observation. I was well aware that he would be chosen as this year's tribute; all I needed to do was watch and listen, and now I know everything I need to know in order to bring him down. _He'll be easy, _I tell myself, as he jogs up the stage and leers at the cameras.

He grabs the microphone before Piston can give it to him. "The name's Gander Gleam," he says, flashing a smile. "Try not to forget it, because it's about to be the name of the Victor of the 123rd Hunger Games!" This elicits an uproar from the crowd, and he raises his hands in the air as though he's already won.

Idiot.

Piston grabs my hand, and he lifts both of his in the air. Before I can wriggle away, he slaps Gander's palm in mine, linking us together. "_District One!" _he screams. It is all he needs to say.

The chanting begins. "Ivory!" I hear, and "Gander! _Gander!" _The excitement has reached a fever pitch. When the Games begin, I imagine it will explode.

I ignore Gander's warm hand in mine as I grin at the crowd. _Remember Gander's name if you like, _I think, _but don't forget mine, if you please. Ivory Margueax, 17, District One._

_ If we have a Victor this year… well, I'll give you this much. It isn't going to be him._

* * *

**Bain Arnon, 16**

**District Four**

There's something about this place that would make a fantastic painting. At first I consider cropping out the people and focusing solely on the reaping square itself, but I ditch the thought. It's the people that make this scene so dynamic.

From my spot amongst the sixteen year old boys, I can see a thousand stories that converge to tell the tale of District Four sending two of its finest away to the 123rd Hunger Games. Well, one of its finest. For the first time since I have been eligible to be reaped, there is no volunteer lined up for the boys. Sometimes it happens. The eighteen year old boys who ought to volunteer are all too weak or cowardly, and no volunteer is assigned. On occasion, a younger kid will take their chances during one of these years, but more often than not, whoever gets reaped is going in.

Getting reaped would be a… a bit of a problem for me. _"You're from District Four," _Kendall often says. _"You're a Career. So train like one."_

But training is, in a word, boring. Slash, hack, fight, kill. They teach the trainees a brutal language that, try as I might, I can't seem to understand. I understand the creative languages better. Wielding a pen or a brush is just as difficult as wielding a sword, I think.

Needless to say, most of my free time is spent painting or writing. Kendall often warns me that I would be better served spending that time in the training center, but it was never a problem before now.

_And I'm sure it won't be a problem, _I remind myself. _I sincerely doubt that it will be me. And even if it is, there's still the chance that someone will volunteer. It's not a problem._

A slight breeze ruffles my black hair and, predictably, a piece immediately flops into my eyes. I sigh, a bit put out. I spent a good part of the morning trying to force my hair to behave, and it seemed as though I'd succeeded. Apparently not.

The breeze smells like salt and something darker and heavier. _Rain, _I decide, glancing at the sky. It isn't raining, but the clouds have been growing stormy all morning. By the time the reapings are over, I imagine the rain will start. There is a chill in the air that is strange for the summer. Wearing a sleeveless shirt like I am, it's a bit unpleasant. I glance at the stage and will them to hurry the process along.

The Mayor has already spoken, which means the escort should be coming on right about… now. Even as I think it, someone rushes up the steps to the stage and grabs the microphone so violently that a metallic screech echoes across the reaping square.

_…She's new, _I decide. I think I'd remember a near-naked escort, as we've never had one before. Her dress is transparent, and while her undergarments are not, it's too much for me. Some of the boys around me seem to disagree, as they begin to moisten their lips nervously, eyes glued to the energetic woman onstage.

She's a tiny little thing, and rather pretty for a Capitol woman. Her eyes are a bright violet and they glimmer with excitement as she caresses the microphone with a pale white hand. "Hi, District Four!" she gushes. "I'm so excited to be here! You have no idea!"

I smile, somewhat wryly. I have an idea, judging by the way she rocks back and forth on her heels. Her grin just keeps on getting wider and wider as she stares out at the crowd. I entertain the notion that she too sees a painting lurking in the square, but subsequently dismiss it. I don't believe the Capitolians are particularly invested in the fine arts.

I don't like Capitolians. Some of them are absolutely harmless, like the excitable escort. But even the harmless ones watch District children die and they enjoy it. Depravity like that belies a twisted nature. I'm not interested in befriending anyone like that. Nor could I make myself like them.

I suppose that some of the Careers fit the same description. _But it's different, _I remind myself. _If they don't think like that, they'll die. It's all real to them. It's just TV for the Capitolians._

"My name is Ceylon Romunera," the escort exclaims. "Hi, guys! So excited to meet you!" She grins at the crowd a moment before continuing. "Now, I know we all want to get to the exciting part, so I'm not going to keep you waiting! Ladies first, right?" She crosses over to the girl's bowl, and wriggles a bit. "Gosh, I'm so excited!" she remarks, reaching inside the bowl. She easily snags a slip between two of her long fingernails and removes it for inspection.

"Alright," she says, after reading the name. "I'm going to announce the girl who was reaped. Immediately after, if anybody wants to volunteer, then they just go for it! Isn't that fun?" She doesn't wait for anyone to respond. "Here we go!" she calls. "Our reaped lady is none other than… Dona Abel!"

I know who will be volunteering, although I can't remember what the girl looks like. Word gets around, which explains my knowledge of the fact that her name is Waverly Breeze, but beyond that, I know nothing of her. If I'd gone to the training center more often I'd probably know her. As it is, I am surprised when an absolutely gorgeous girl strolls out of the eighteen year old section and pauses in front of the stage, smiling brilliantly. "_I _volunteer," she announces, striking a pose with one hand on her hip.

Her clothing is almost as bad as Ceylon's. She's wearing a dress so short I can see a strip of neon pink that must be her underwear. The top of the dress isn't much better, falling so low that nothing is left to the imagination. I find myself rather flustered by the display, and turn away. My cheeks are a bit warm, so I glare at my shoes until the sensation passes.

When I look up again, Waverly has taken the stage. She's managed to wrest control of the microphone away from Ceylon and is grinning widely, blonde curls tumbling in a cascade down her back. "Hey, Panem," she says in a husky voice, leaning down so far that I'm afraid her dress will give up the struggle and quietly slip down to her ankles. "The name's Waverly Breeze and I'm _so happy…" _Here she wriggles her chest in an incredibly provocative way, giving one of the boys standing next to me a sort of joyful fit. "So happy to be District Four's female tribute," she finishes, running her hand up and down the microphone. At that, I have to look away. I'm probably bright red. I don't know how some people can look at that kind of display and feel nothing but satisfaction. I'm embarrassed as anything.

Ceylon jumps up and down and claps her hands. "Wow, Waverly!" she exclaims. "You're _gorgeous!"_

Waverly grins. "That's sweet," she says, in a tone that suggests "gorgeous" is a bit of a tame representation of her attractiveness.

Ceylon slips in front of Waverly and regains control of the microphone. "Alright," she says. "Now that we have Waverly, we have to get our male tribute! Who's excited? I'm excited," she confesses, giggling slightly.

I find myself mildly apprehensive as she reaches into the boy's bowl. _No, it's fine, _I reassure myself. _I'm fine._

"Alright!" calls Ceylon. "Same rules from before apply, okay? So… the boy reaped is Bain Arnon!"

My blue eyes widen fractionally. My stomach lurches, and everything feels unnaturally still. The smell of rain is back, but now it is a cloying stink that fills my mouth with the taste of iron and rust.

Onstage, Ceylon is tapping her foot. "Hey!" she calls, seeming a bit put out. "Isn't somebody gonna volunteer?" _Right, _I remember. _Someone will volunteer… someone has to._

Silence. Somewhere in the distance, a bird screams. It feels prophetic, and I wonder vaguely if I can write a poem on the subject.

"I guess you'd better come up to the stage then, Bain!" Ceylon decides. "Looks like you're the lucky tribute after all!"

I find myself walking before I make the conscious decision to do it. The crowd parts before me and I breathe deeply and evenly. _It's alright, _I tell myself, as I draw closer and closer to the steps. _It'll be fine. I can do this. I'm a Career, and I can do this._

The soft slap of my sandals against the stairs sounds like a series of gunshots to me. I try to mimic what Waverly did, and walk to the center of the stage. Thankfully, Ceylon seems to understand my hesitation, as she rushes forward and grabs my shoulders. Being so close to two scantily-clad women has me blushing again. I swallow harshly. _Focus Bain, focus._

Ceylon shoves the microphone into my hands. "Do you have anything to tell Panem, Bain?" she asks hopefully.

I look at the microphone for a moment before staring into the nearest camera. "I have nothing to say," I exclaim, as coldly as I can.

Ceylon seems taken aback. "Nothing to say?"

"Nothing," I repeat, and hand the microphone back to her, moving until I am at Waverly's side. She cocks her head curiously at me before giving me a slow wink. I immediately drop my head to look at my shoes. I can hear her laughing quietly over the rumble of the crowd.

"District Four!" says Ceylon. "I give you your tributes!" I don't even look up. The crowd cheers, although it seems more like duty than anything else. Here we are, up here on this lonely stage, players in a Game that started before we were born.

I like the sound of that. The skeleton of a poem is building itself in my mind, and with my eyes closed I can almost ignore the sound of the cheering as I begin to work, fleshing out the skeleton and working so frantically that I can barely taste my own fear…

* * *

**Pandora, 14**

**District Seven**

Despite my efforts to keep my eyes fixed on the stage where they belong, I find myself peering up at the sky, combing through the cloudy whiteness in an effort to locate her. For a while I can't see anything, and then I narrow my blue eyes at a small black shape being buffeted by the wind, but circling overhead. _Ebony! _I think, and resist the urge to raise my hand, to call the raven down to my shoulder where she belongs.

It took weeks before the bird would trust me. I brought food every day, stealing out to the woods behind my house. The barbed wire fence is laughably easy to crawl under; otherwise I might never have discovered the woods. It is forbidden to chop trees so close to the district; workers are taken by train to a remote wooded area and set to work. But most people still consider the woods a boring part of life, and don't feel the need to visit. It might have been the same for me, if I hadn't discovered how easy it is to thwart the fence.

But that isn't how it worked out at all. I discovered the fence, I went to the woods, and I met the bird. It kind of sounds like a fairytale, now that I think about it. But there hasn't been a happy ending yet. I'm still waiting.

Beside me, my best friend Lazuli fidgets uncomfortably, absentmindedly reaching into her pocket to poke at something. _She probably stole it, _I think. Lazuli can't help her thieving nature. Kleptomania, I think it's called, and she has it bad. She steals things from me all the time. She usually returns them, in the end. _"It's the thrill of stealing I like," _she told me once. _"The stuff doesn't matter to me."_

"Hey," whispers Lazuli, nodding at the stage. "Check out the escort." I glance up and then grimace at the sight of Salon Wisteria talking animatedly with one of our mentors. Reuben Savage, I think his name is. He doesn't look very pleased about the conversation; he's scowling at Salon, but she chatters mindlessly on, tossing her blonde hair and grinning excitedly.

"She's flirting," Lazuli chuckles. "Heh. I'm just _embarrassed _for her."

I nod in response and look away, not particularly interested in District Seven's escort and her failings in the flirting department. Unbidden, my eyes wander back towards the sky. I'm able to locate Ebony much faster this time. _Hi there, _I think, a soft smile slipping onto my lips.

"Hi there!" For a startled second I think that my raven friend has obtained a voice and is now mimicking me, but then I remember where I am, and who is likely speaking. With a resigned grumble, I look back at the stage to see Salon capering around, talking so loudly that my ears are ringing.

"My name is Salon Wisteria (even though I'm pretty sure like _all _of you know that, right?) and we're about to start the reapings! If you're not excited there's something wrong with you _okay? _I mean like I've been excited for weeks! I literally haven't slept for like four days, isn't that crazy? And I bet you can all see how my fingernails are painted green because…"

Despite the fact that I was trying to pay attention, I can't focus on her voice and the words slip away from me. I watch her movements instead. She hurries from one side of the stage to the other, hugging the microphone to her chest. It is only when she starts moving towards the two bowls set up in the center that I realize she has finally gotten to the point.

I can feel a light coating of sweat on my palms. It isn't particularly likely that I'll be reaped, not when I haven't taken any tesserae, but there's always a chance.

Salon's lips are moving, but the words slip by so quickly that I don't think any of us can understand her. I can see people looking at each other confusedly. Lazuli shoots me a quizzical look, to which I only shrug my shoulders. There's not much to say beyond the fact that District Seven clearly got the crazy escort.

Salon pauses in front of the girl's bowl and stares inside hungrily, licking her lips. They are bright red, and it looks almost as if she dipped them into a bowl of blood to get the color right. I've never seen any shade of lipstick that matched the color of blood so perfectly.

The escort reaches into the bowl and roots around among the slips for a moment, finally managing to grasp one despite her long fingernails, which must impede her movement. A breeze snatches at the paper as she lifts it towards her face and unfolds it.

For a moment she reads the name, bright red lips moving as she mumbles it under her breath. "Okay, Pandora Barke!" she calls suddenly. "Come right up to the stage because you are _totally _the tribute this year! Awesome, right? I think it's awesome…"

_That isn't my name, _I think. _Pandora Barke. My name is Pandora. Just Pandora._

I know "Barke," though. _It's the name they give orphans, _I remember. _Or people who don't have a last name. Like me._

I asked my mother about that, once. _"The other people in the district have last names," _I said. "_Why not our family?"_

She smiled at me before drawing me into her lap. _"Father and I come from far away," _she whispered. _"From place across the sea, where all people have one name only. But we have to leave."_

_ "Why?" _I remember being curious, and a little bit sad. _"Why'd you have to leave?"_

Her face was grave. _"Because it very dangerous there, _qīn ài de nǐ_," _she told me. _"More dangerous than here, with Games. People were hurting. People were dying."_

_ "Oh." _I wriggled in her lap. _"And they let you come here?"_

_ "No," _she told me. _"No one supposed to leave. Panem was no supposed to welcome us. But we were swift and silent, and we have friends here to smuggle us into district. I wanted better future for you, my Pandora. Better than what you would find there…"_

When I got older, I looked up the place Mom was referring to. It took some hunting, but eventually I found a school textbook that mentioned it. Apparently my parents' home country is a land of strife and death; indeed, death is more of a mercy there. The book called it "Serkon," and warned that the people of Panem and its government never treat with the monsters from across the sea.

I'm glad. They sound like terrible people, if the book and my mother can be believed.

Someone gets my arm in a rough grip and I swivel my head abruptly, shocked. Lazuli's fingers clutch at me. Her eyes are round and horrified. "You have to go," she whispers, giving me a slight push. "Hurry. _Now, _Pandora."

I stumble away from her, slightly panicked. I was thinking… it wasn't as though I'd forgotten I had been reaped. But for a moment I had put it out of my mind completely.

The crowd melts away, leaving me a direct path to the stairs. Heart pounding in my chest, I begin to walk. Each step, my athletic shoes squeak slightly on the cobblestones, although I don't believe anyone notices but me. My palms are dripping with sweat now. I can only imagine how my face looks. _Deep breaths, _I think, and try to force my expression into a calm one. I don't know if I succeeded.

_At least I'm not crying, _I decide. _That's good. If I cry, I'm in for it._

As I begin to walk up the stairs, a loud screech echoes from above. Automatically, I brush my black hair to the side as a solid weight lands on my shoulder. Ebony lets out another frightening screech. And then she does something strange.

"_No," _she says.

I blink. For months now I've been trying to teach Ebony some basic words. Ravens are very smart birds and can mimic human speech, but Ebony never seemed particularly interested in that before. Now, though... _"No," _the raven cries again, fluttering her wings and looking back and forth. "_No, no, no."_

Onstage, Salon squeals. "Ewww! Pandora, watch out! There's a creepy bird on your shoulder!" The escort looks at the audience helplessly. "Somebody help!"

I have a bad feeling that Ebony will be in danger if she remains with me any longer. "Go, Ebony," I murmur, lifting my arm. The raven screams and takes to the sky in a flurry of black wings. She rapidly gains altitude until she is once again a black dot against a solid grey sky, circling and waiting.

With Ebony gone, Salon seems a bit calmer. "Phew, okay," she says. "That was pretty freaky, huh? Yeah, it was. I nearly wet myself…" And just like that, I lose her again. It's amazing how quickly this woman talks, and it's amazing how quickly I can lose myself in her words.

I'm not thinking about Salon at all. Looking out at the people, all I can think of is just how doomed I am. I'm fourteen. Fourteen year olds have won plenty of times, but they were all skilled somehow. _Well, I know animals and plants, _I remind myself, trying to calm down. _That has to count for something. _Doesn't it?

I regain my concentration long enough to see Alder Stain reaped. An attractive boy (although, weirdly, he has scars all over arms and back) that walks out of the seventeen year old section, I can already tell that he isn't the type of person anyone would want to kill. He has a stricken look on his face, and his skin glistens with perspiration. When he gets onto the stage and stands next to me, I can see that his hands are shaking madly.

Salon shouts something about tributes, but she says it so quickly that I miss it. There is some confused clapping, and the dull murmuring of a crowd that clearly disapproves. _They don't want us to go, _I think. _They don't want us to die. _

That thought is heartening. Most people in District Seven don't know me, but they don't want to watch me die. _They'll be rooting for me, _I realize. _At least some of them will be rooting for me. And if they believe in me, maybe, just maybe…_

_ Maybe I can do this._

* * *

**Kaiden Harte, 17**

**District Nine**

Frond nudges me with his elbow, giving me a grin that bares pearly white teeth. "You're up, buddy," he whispers, keeping his voice low in order to keep the Mayor from hearing. Said Mayor is currently standing onstage, trying to keep his shoulders from slumping. He always looks sad nowadays.

For a moment, I feel a bit bad about the plan. But… the Mayor's speech is going to be over by the time I throw it. Hopefully he won't even be onstage. Besides, I can't back out now! Frond and the others keep on telling me how hilarious it's going to be when I hurl the box, which is filled to the brim with spiders, centipedes, and other creepy-crawlies, right at the escort.

I mean, I guess it will be funny. If the others say it'll be funny, I'll just go along with it. I can't have them thinking I'm uncool. I'm Kaiden Harte, the prankster who doesn't care about the rules. That's who I am.

_That's who I _want _to be, _I find myself thinking. I blink rapidly and try to drown out the thought by humming Panem's national anthem to myself. _I'm funny, _I remind myself. _I'm funny and badass and everybody likes me._

"You ready?" asks Grane, grinning at me. His smile is a bit malicious, but surely it's just because he's excited. This is pretty funny… The escort probably won't be as amused, but I have to do it. I have to.

I nod rapidly. "This is gonna be _epic," _I exclaim, and Grane and Frond exchange glances.

"Yeah," says Frond, after a moment. "It'll be real funny, buddy. Just make sure to warn us _before _you throw, alright?"

"Sure," I reply, although I'm not quite sure why. They probably just don't want to be anyone near that box when it leaves my hand. _They're probably afraid, _I think, feeling a bit smug. _I'm okay with it, though. _The box rests against one of my hips, held securely in my hand. It's thick enough that I can't feel anything moving around inside it, but I know what's in there. _Better not drop it, _I remind myself, shifting so I have the box in a tighter grip.

A movement registers in the corner of my large hazel eyes, and I glance at it quizzically. _Oh, _I realize, my throat suddenly dry. _There's the escort. _Frond nudges me again, raising his eyebrows significantly. "Remember the plan?" he whispers.

I nod in reply. I remember the plan. _Throw it right when the boy gets reaped, to show our support_. Originally, I was supposed to throw it as soon as the escort walked onstage, but I convinced the others that it would be cooler if we waited, because we would be showing everyone just how we felt about a compatriot of ours being reaped.

Well okay, we're not friends with _every _guy in the district. But Frond and Grane know a ton of people, and since I'm cool with them I know a lot of people as well.

I fiddle with the lid on the box as Loder Kensington gets onstage. He's been the District Nine escort for a while now, although it's impossible to tell from his appearance. He doesn't look much older than me, in fact. Clutching the box, I find myself a bit nervous. Loder's smile is nothing if not cruel, and his eyes are icy and weird. He seems like the antithesis of a good escort, but apparently he's a well-loved Capitolian who's extremely popular with the ladies. I don't see it, personally.

"Hello once again, District Nine," he purrs into the microphone. "This place is nothing if not… _lovely." _With a lazy wave of his hand, he indicates the decrepit and crumbling square. "I can see that you really cleaned up well in an effort to impress me," he continues.

_No wonder the Mayor always looks so sad, _I realize. _Loder is a jerk. _I suddenly don't feel very bad about the bug box anymore.

"Despite the fact that I'd love nothing more than to stay in your fantastic district, we have a lady to reap," says Loder. "Without further ado, I'll invite our fantastic female up to the stage, where she can celebrate, as I'm sure she will." He grins, crossing over to one of the reaping bowls. His gait is leonine and unhurried, and his black hair is ruffled by the breeze.

With great ceremony, he reaches into the bowl and plucks up a single slip, holding it between two fingers. "And now," he says, "I will call up… Petal Rowe!"

For a few minutes, nothing happens. Then, finally, the smallest girl I've ever seen slinks out of the sixteen year olds section. I'd think she was twelve if it wasn't for her location. Her expression is a mix between anger and terror; her brown eyes are huge and her face is quite pale. She marches up the steps woodenly, coming to a stop next Loder and crossing her arms across her chest.

"Welcome, Petal," says Loder. "I don't suppose we have any volunteers for her?" When no one is forthcoming, he sighs. "We never do." He glances down at the girl with a slightly curled lip. "You're awfully small for your age."

"You're awfully attractive for yours," snaps Petal, with a quivering voice. "How many surgeries did it take to make you pretty?"

Loder's eyebrows rise so far into his hairline that they disappear from view. He moves away from the microphone and murmurs something to Petal that I don't catch, but his demeanor is threatening enough that I can guess that he said something frightening. Petal doesn't look frightened, though. She glares out at the cameras as though daring them to tangle with her.

"Petal Rowe, everyone," grumbles Loder. _Alright, _I realize, pushing the box out in front of me. _This is it. _My arms tremble slightly with exertion. _Just a bit longer. It'll be fine. This guy definitely deserves it, anyway._

Loder doesn't even seem particularly interested anymore. He reaches into the male's bowl casually, as if he's reaching for a snack. When he unfurls the paper, I pull the box towards my chest. _Ready… _I think, and nod towards Frond and Grane.

"Kaiden Harte!" Loder calls.

I drop the box.

"What the _fuck!" _someone shouts, around the same time the box smashes onto the ground. It explodes almost immediately, and then the wriggling bodies move out from the wreckage. I stand frozen, watching them crawl over my feet, observing the other boys stampeding away from me until I'm alone in a circle of bodies with nothing but a swarm of bugs and spiders for company.

One industrious little centipede is crawling up my ankle. I swallow. Somehow, having a bug on my bare skin doesn't seem to matter so much anymore. The stage seems like it's a thousand miles away. _Walk, _I tell myself, and I begin to move. Tiny bodies crunch underneath my shoes with every step.

All around me, people are whispering. _They're all looking at me, _I think, and that makes me feel a bit better. _People are finally noticing Kaiden Harte. My brothers never did this. My friends never did this. This is all me._

Somehow, that line of thought doesn't really help.

I can feel the centipede working its leisurely way up my ribcage as I mount the steps. More bugs are clinging to my shoes, but I can't find it in me to kick them away. As I turn until I'm facing the audience and standing next to Loder, I feel the centipede emerge from under my shirt. It pauses for a moment, tasting the air, before heading towards my neck.

"Are there any volunteers for Kaiden?" Loder calls, sounding exquisitely bored. "Oh, what a massive surprise," he mutters to himself. "None."

"Alright!" he says, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "I guess that's all for today, everyone. Thank you for your hospitality, Happy Hunger Games and all that…" He turns away, grumbling to himself.

The centipede has reached my cheek. I can feel the tiny feet prickling against my skin. Slowly, I reach up and press my fingertips into it. It wriggles frantically, all of its feet dashing futilely against me. Then its movements slow and cease altogether.

_I'm doomed, _I think.

* * *

**William Wilson, 17**

**District Three**

"I've been looking forward to this for _weeks," _Floriana says. She moves back and forth onstage in a disturbingly sinuous way, as though she's trying to hypnotize her audience before she strikes. Her gown is deep purple and mesmerizing to look at. In fact, Floriana's entire "look" this year seems to be purple: her eyes, lips and even her hair are all the same color.

_This is wrong, _I think, hugging myself uncomfortably. _Nobody should look forward to this. _Absentmindedly I smooth out my white shirt and brush an imaginary speck of dust off my creased black slacks. I try to find the best in everyone, I really do, but I can't find anything good about someone who seems so excited about the Games.

_She's an escort, _I remind myself. _This is her job. _Besides, I don't know enough about her to pass judgment on her. _And hopefully I'll never have to get to know her. _If I got to know Floriana Highgarden, I'd be on my way to the Games. And if there's anything I don't want to be, it's a tribute. _Almost certain death and suffering, and to live I'd have to become another person. _I swallow hard. _Because I don't kill. I'd never kill anybody…_

This line of thought is a bit out of character for me. Normally I'm a pretty upbeat person. But today is the day of the reapings, and I'm going to have to stand here and watch two kids get called up to almost certain death. After all, in the past District Three has only ever had two Victors. What are the odds that we'll have another this year?

I don't feel like figuring them out, but I imagine that they aren't very good.

Onstage, Floriana continues her smoldering little dance. This appears to annoy one of our Victors, Coyle Reid, as he shouts something obviously derogative (although the microphones aren't close enough to him to make his voice audible.) Floriana whirls around, balling her hands into fists, and the two of them have a brief shouting match that's impossible to hear over the crowd. The twelve year olds can probably hear it, as I can see a few of them wincing.

Now Olivine Trikle gets involved in the argument as well, gently but firmly pointing towards the microphone. Annoyed, Floriana spits out some inaudible retort before stomping back to her place.

"It's time to reap our _lovely _lady," she snarls, from between teeth that are clenched so tightly I imagine her gums must be in agony. "I certainly hope everyone is ready. I know I am."

_Perhaps I _do _know enough about her to pass judgment, _I decide. _She seems far too pleased about this to be a good person. _

Floriana tugs on her purple hair as she moves towards the girl's bowl. Her dress is so extravagant that she nearly trips on the trailing cloth several times, although she is miraculously able to right herself each time. By the time she makes it to the bowl, it is clear that she is regretting her fashion choices. For a moment, I feel bad for her. _Poor lady. She doesn't want to be embarrassed in front of the entire nation. I hope she doesn't trip. _Maybe she doesn't deserve my pity or well wishes, but I can't imagine how awful it would be to look like a fool in front of thousands of people.

She isn't particularly dramatic about the drawing of the slip. She simply reaches into the bowl, grabs the first one her fingers come into contact with, and yanks it out. Then comes the arduous walk back to the microphone. I can see her legs trembling with exertion by the time she makes it back.

It seems that her energy is too spent for dramatics. She unfolds the paper, shoots a nasty look at Olivine and Coyle, and shouts "Lydia Starling!"

_Oh, no, _I think. _Poor Lydia. _ Her father and mine work at the same company and are good friends. I don't know Lydia very well, but she's been over to my house several times for dinner, along with her family. I never got the impression that she liked me very much; in fact, she seemed constantly wary during our limited interactions. I remember at least one dinner where I managed to get her to warm up a bit, towards the end. She was still uptight, but at least she wasn't staring at me like I murdered someone.

Now that I think about it, I believe that she managed to convince me that the Mayor was, in fact, a baby killer by the end of that dinner. It took me a while before I was able to get over a clinging sense of nervousness whenever the Mayor was mentioned. _It was easier with her older sister, _I remember. _She flirted with me quite a bit. _Stephanie and I are the same age. Somewhat absentmindedly, I glance over at the girl's section to find Stephanie's eyes brimming with tears. She is pale and obviously very shocked. A pang of sympathy hits me hard. _Poor girls. Poor Stephanie. Poor, poor Lydia._

Lydia emerges from the fifteen year olds section . Her large green eyes are nervous and unblinking, and she glares at everyone suspiciously as she makes her careful way towards the stage. _She's not crying, _I think. _That's good. _Her face is screwed up, but she looks almost disturbed, less frightened than furious. _That will make her look better, _I tell myself. _She'll be alright…_

Floriana glares as Lydia cautiously moves towards her. I don't miss the way Lydia looks at our mentors; she shies away from them as though they're something truly frightening to her. When she makes it to the escort, she stops dead, looking uncertain.

"You made it!" says Floriana, all sickly sweet exuberance. "Well, good for you, dear. I'm sure you'll do just _fine _in the arena." Her expression says everything that her lips don't. _I think you'll be the first to go, dear._

"Moving right along," continues Floriana, "it's time to reap the boy." She marches over to the boy's bowl much faster than she did for the girls, seeming more comfortable with her dress now that she's had some practice walking in it. "Here we are," she mumbles, snagging a slip and hurrying back.

"William Wilson!" she shouts, glaring out at the district as though each and every one of us has personally offended her. "Come!"

I rear back as though I've been physically struck. _Shit, _I think, and my palms begin to sweat. _Oh shit, shit, no. _My heart practically rumbles in my chest. _No, no, no no no._

Heads are turning to look at me. Instinctively, I acknowledge them with a wobbly smile. "Ex-excuse me," I stammer. "I need… I need to get through here…" My voice fades. _I can't. I can't do this. _

Someone moves aside, and someone else gives me a gentle pat on the back. "Go forward," a boy behind me murmurs. "Just go. Don't think, just walk."

I stumble, balling my hands into fists, but I start walking forward as per the boy's suggestion. I mumble apologies as I bump into people and slip through gaps in the crowd until I find myself walking up the steps. When I make it to the top, I feel as though I'm at the edge of the world. Floriana speaks into the microphone, making the barbed comments I have come to associate with her. All I can do is stare.

When it finally occurs to me to look for the boy who gave me such good advice, we are already leaving the stage. When I glance at the place where I was standing I find that it has been swallowed up, other bodies moving to fill in the gap that I left behind. All I can see is a row of blank faces staring up at me with deadened eyes, and my place among them gone.

* * *

**Mallory Atella, 17**

**District Ten**

Gwynneth is crying again. This is not a surprise; every year, without fail, she will start crying during the reapings and won't stop until they are over. Ordinarily she isn't so juvenile, but the reapings really get to her. _"And what if you get reaped and you're crying?" _I asked her once, just to show her how dangerous crying can be on this particular day. _"You'll die. You won't get any sponsors, and you'll die in the Games."_

Of course, that only made her cry harder, and I resolved not to make that point again in the future. I've stayed true to that oath. Even now, while awkwardly patting my best (and only) friend's shoulder, I don't mention the fact that crying during the reapings is tantamount to suicide.

I, of course, have planned out what I'll do in the event that it is me who is chosen. There will be no tears. There will be no whimpering, or whining, or entreaties to the audience for help. I will go up to the stage, I will answer any questions the escort asks me, and it will be over. I won't stand out, certainly, but that can be a good thing, as good a thing as crying is bad.

Gwynneth sniffles, rubbing at her running nose with her sleeve. "I-I'm sorry, Mallory," she whispers, blinking rapidly. "I know you don't like people who cry…"

I sigh. "I don't like people who _whine, _Gwynneth, but crying is alright. It's perfectly understandable to want to cry today. If you get reaped, your chances of winning the Games are fairly low."

Gwynneth promptly begins to sob again, and I grimace slightly. _Well done, Mallory, _I think. _You've done it again. _

The Mayor's speech is still ringing across the plain, amplified by the speakers scattered intermittently on the hard-packed earth. Gwynneth and I, being 17, are near the back, so far from the stage that I can barely see the Mayor. The wind whistles, picking at my dress shirt and drawing it up to reveal a flat strip of my stomach. Uncomfortably I grab a fistful of fabric and yank it back down. This pulls my shirt a bit low, but I don't have much of a chest to speak of, so it's alright.

"… and, in conclusion, let's all try our best to have a happy Hunger Games." Mayor Quaite says the words with a smile more akin to a grimace adorning his face. He doesn't like the Games, never has. The Mayors are chosen by the Capitol and are usually at least somewhat supportive of the Capitol's ways, but Quaite clearly isn't. _He's going to get killed with that attitude, _I think. _He should at least try to pretend he's enjoying himself. _

That's a bit hypocritical, seeing as the crowd is so quiet you could probably hear a pin drop if someone had the foresight to bring one in order to test the theory. District Ten is discontent. I don't know a single person who respects or loves the Capitol. I don't know if any exist, even. A breeze picks up and I cross my arms over my chest. _The Capitol had better watch itself, _I think, narrowing my dark brown eyes. _A storm is coming. I don't know when, I don't know how, but it's coming._

Speaking of the Capitol, one of its representatives comes flouncing onto the stage, posing dramatically in front of the nest of microphones. She has long, dark hair (rather like mine, although I get the feeling that hers has been dyed whereas mine is natural) and is wearing the tallest high heels I've ever seen. I don't recognize her; she must be new. District Ten is always getting new escorts, as they often get promoted to better districts. I don't mind it. Capitolians are, in general, lazy slobs, and the escorts are never an exception.

"_Hello, _District Ten!" the woman cries excitedly. "My name is Tatiana Larkspur, and I really want to make these reapings exciting for everybody!" She beams at the audience. "You guys never look like you're having any fun, and I want to change that! So, this year I've decided to do the reapings… _in song!"_

Gwynneth abruptly stops crying, glancing up at the stage with a shocked expression as upbeat music begins to play. "In song?" she exclaims, cocking her head slightly. A lock of red hair drips across her collarbone. "_Seriously?"_

"Hm," I exclaim. _Perhaps I was wrong about Tatiana. She seems slightly more prepared than our previous escorts. Regardless, she'll be gone next year. There's no way the President will allow this to happen twice._

Tatiana begins to warble about the Games in time to the music. _She's not actually that bad, _I reflect, tracking her movements across the stage. Her song incorporates the history of the Games, as well as two of District Ten's three Victors, Thomas Daniels and Lauren Booth. Because they are mentors, she describes a bit of their Games. Thomas, a neat man who sits with his lips pressed firmly together, winces visibly when Tatiana rhymes "_beloved_ _fallen ally" _with _"most awful way to die," _and Lauren has her head in her hands by the time Tatiana gets through describing the infamous Knife Up Nose incident in glorious musical detail.

By the time Tatiana prepares to reap the girl, both mentors look nauseous and Mayor Quaite seems about ready to emulate the Knife Up Nose incident with the microphone on his podium. For a moment I think that Tatiana is surely done singing, but she continues singing as she skips over to the girl's bowl. _"She'll bring honor to the district, even if she dies, which won't necessarily happen, but if it does we'll cry!" _She reaches into the bowl and removes a slip, which she reads.

I take a deep breath. _Calm, _I think.

_"Maaallory… Atellaaaaaa!"_

Her voice reaches a note so high that it hurts to listen to. I resist the urge to clap my hands over my ears. _The plan, the plan, _I remind myself. _I have to remember the plan._

I swallow harshly, over and over, and pick my way through the crowd of people. When they realize who I am, they move quickly to get out of my way, but it is a full five minutes before I finally make it to where Tatiana spins back and forth, showing off her grey dress. _"Are there any volunteers?" _she yodels, somehow still in time with the music playing in the background.

There aren't any. It's no surprise, but my stomach clenches painfully and I bite my tongue so hard that I taste blood. _Fuck, _I think, fighting to keep my countenance neutral and unworried. _I'm fucked._

Thankfully, Tatiana doesn't ask me any questions, preferring to launch into the second part of her song, which concerns the boy for our district. I hang back and catch Thomas' eye. It's unlikely that he'll be my mentor (as we're both girls, I imagine Lauren will mentor me) but he gives me a sympathetic look and nods, ever so slightly. Looking at him, I feel somewhat better. He's rail thin and very pale, looking more like a morphling addict than a Victor. _If he could win, I must have a chance._

Tatiana clears her throat before wailing out _"Coooolton Graaaaay!" _It has always been a part of my plan to appear unaffected by the reaping of my district partner, but the name "Gray" catches my attention. _Gray, _I think. _Another Gray? _

It was Kate Gray two years ago. She didn't die well, if I'm remembering correctly. The arena two years ago was some kind of cave system, so dark that seeing two feet in front of yourself was impossible unless you had a flashlight. Kate didn't.

I was fifteen at the time, just old enough to feel a fierce pride at the girl from my district escaping the Bloodbath relatively unscathed. But, as I watched on, it dawned on me that she was not doing as well as I'd hoped. She was blind, essentially. Other tributes kept receiving flashlights; even her district partner got one eventually. But not Kate.

When she fell into the chasm, I turned off the television and busied myself with other activities. But when I turned it back on, there she was, still being featured. Legs broken, she wasted away in that pit. It was as dark as a tomb down there, and she always gasped for breath as though there was hardly enough air. When she died, I was happy for her. _Better dead than dying, _I told myself, and did my best to forget about it. I try not to watch the Games, but for whatever reason I was particularly invested in Kate Gray. I really, truly wanted her to win.

And now her younger brother comes struggling up the steps, his face a mirror of hers and a mask of blood. If I hadn't been planning on keeping my expression still, I surely would have reacted with horrified surprise by now. Blood is smeared across his face, crimson against his olive skin tone. Both of his eyes are surrounded by darkened skin, and his nose looks broken. His lips are covered in cuts, some clotted and others still weeping. _What happened to him? _I think, as he glares fiercely at Tatiana before limping to my side, pressing one of his hands into his ribs. _He's just a kid. What the hell happened to him?_

"_District Teeeeen, your tributes are here, but will they do well? That much isn't cleeeeear!"_

Colton looks like he wants to strangle her. And, while I can't share in his obvious passionate hatred, I can feel something burning in my gut. _This is wrong, _I think, tasting blood in my mouth and seeing it smeared across the face of my partner. _This is definitely wrong._

_ But what am I going to do about it?_

* * *

**Flywheel Nightshade, 16**

**District Twelve**

The look of concern of Pepper's pudgy face is endearing. "It'll be fine, Eve," she whispers awkwardly, patting her sister on the back, "but you really have to go back to the other thirteen year olds now."

Eve sniffles, rubbing at her green eyes with the back of her hand. "But I'm scared," she whines, pressing her body against mine. "I want to stay with you guys."

Comfortingly, I stroke her crimson hair. "Don't be scared," I croon. "You won't be reaped, Eve."

She looks up at me. "Promise?"

I can feel something breaking inside of me as I reach down and rub a tear off her cheek with my thumb. "You know I can't make that promise. But I don't think you'll be reaped. I really don't."

Somehow, my words work where Pepper's failed. Eve has stopped sobbing. She still swipes at her eyes, which are misty, and hiccups. But she's no longer whimpering and wailing and burying her face in my chest. "Poppy is with the other thirteen year olds," I remind her, smiling a bit as I mention my younger sister. "You can stand with her. Poppy won't let you be frightened." _No, _I think to myself, _Poppy will talk you to death instead. _But I think distraction is just the thing Eve needs right now, so I send her off to her section with no regrets.

Pepper grins admiringly as she watches her younger sister walk away. "I don't know how you do it," she confesses, wiping at a bit of sweat trickling down her neck. "You have a gift for dealing with kids."

I only grin, shrugging my shoulders slightly. I am rather good at dealing with children, particularly crying ones. It helps that I sympathize with them greatly. _No child should ever have to cry, _I like to think.

I used to cry, when I was Eve's age; bitterly, with the darkened walls of the mines closing in around me. No child is forced to work in the mines, but it was mutually agreed upon that the family needed extra money. I ended up volunteering for it. I had no idea what I was getting into.

When I was younger and smaller, they had me crawling through tunnels. I would come home on the weekends covered in black dust. It would be in my hair, in my eyes, up my nose, coating my tongue, even. When I ate, all I could taste was ash.

Since my fifteenth birthday, however, I've been promoted. My job now is to haul the coal from the entrance of the mines to the trains to be collected by the Capitol. It's brutal, backbreaking work, and I bake in the hot sun every day. And I'm grateful for it. I'd rather anything but the mines again.

Sometimes I regret the choice I made. While other children are learning in school, I'm hauling coal, dusting the back of my tanned legs with gritty black powder. But all it takes is a glance at Poppy's smiling face to remind me that I made the correct decision. Because of the extra money my job offers the family, Poppy is able to go to school, and eat well. I like to think that whatever Mom cooks for her is better than what they give us at work. I have found that I'm able to enjoy any food that doesn't taste like coal.

"District Twelve, District Twelve, District Twelve." The voice breaks me from my train of thought, and I glance up at the stage instinctively. Lounging in the very center is our district's infamous escort, Cincinnatus Tremolo. His orange hair clashes weirdly with his bright yellow skin and neither of them match his eyes. One blue, one green. I believe that everything about Cincinnatus has been altered but those eyes. They don't seem Capitolian to me.

He grins at the crowd lazily. His posture is relaxed, as though he could care less about the reapings. He never does seem particularly interested.

"Once again, like every year, no one seems particularly stoked to see me. Well, that's alright, guys. I get it." He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, revealing a dramatic set of hipbones. "We're cool," he says. "I'll just reap a boy and a girl and then I'll be out of your hair for another year."

"Great!" someone shouts. I can see the Peacekeepers around the square tensing, looking for the culprit, but Cincinnatus only chuckles.

"Right, let's get on with it," he says, and slouches towards the girl's bowl. A familiar fear claws at my chest and makes it difficult to breathe. I've been to four reapings already, and they never get better. In fact, they get worse over the years, as the likelihood of getting reaped increases.

Cincinnatus reaches into the bowl, shifting some of the slips around before finally grabbing one. He pulls it out and unfolds it, scanning it with both eyes narrowed. "Flywheel Nightshade," he calls out abruptly.

I find that I can't breathe. The murmuring of the crowd, the sound of Cincinnatus tapping the base of the microphone, even the slight breeze tugging at my dark brown hair and threatening to pull it out of my ponytail, they all go away. The only thing I can hear is the blood roaring in my ears. It sounds like the ocean is trapped inside my head.

My whole body feels numb. Unwillingly, I take a step forward. "No, no, _no," _Pepper is saying, but I can't find the words in me to reassure her. The ocean in my head sloshes angrily as I slip through gaps in the crowd of people. My palms are dripping like crazy, and I pause only once to wipe them off on my purple tank top.

I'm feeling faint by the time I make it to the stage. _Deep breaths, _I think, and relax somewhat when warm air sweeps into my frozen lungs.

Cincinnatus' eyes are inscrutable. "Hey," he says, catching my wrist and pulling me forward. Compliant, I stumble towards him and connect awkwardly with him, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Any volunteers for Flywheel?" he calls.

There aren't any.

He gives me a look. "Flywheel Nightshade," he announces, releasing my arm. "This one looks like a fighter, you guys. I'd bet on her if I were you."

The unexpected praise makes me feel slightly warm, but the icy terror racing through my veins dulls that warmth. I stand as still as a statue as Cincinnatus moves to the boy's bowl. He doesn't even shift the slips; he just reaches in and grabs the one on top. After a moment, he clears his throat. "Terance Ryiane," he says.

A hush descends on the crowd as a small boy begins to walk. He emerges from the thirteen year old section and is trembling with fear. As I watch, he begins to sniffle and then the tears come, dripping down his olive skin.

My breath catches in my throat. All of a sudden, I want to cry, but not for me. _He's just a kid! _I want to shout. _Take someone else, take someone older! _

Terance tries to wipe away the tears as he stumbles towards Cincinnatus. The escort catches the boy before he crashes into the reaping bowl, gently swiveling him so he faces the cameras. "Volunteers?" he asks. We connect eyes, just for a moment, and I know that he knows that there won't be any.

Sure enough, no one calls out. Only I can see the sudden slump to Cincinnatus' shoulders. "Okay," he says. "Terance Ryiane is the male tribute for the 123rd Games." He squeezes Terance's shoulder. "He's a small fry, but he might surprise you dudes," he says suddenly. "Don't count him out."

I look at Terance and feel pity sinking in my stomach like a heavy weight. _He's small, _I think despairingly, _and he looks… well, innocent. He has nice clothes, so I guess he's not from the Seam. That could be good, or it could be bad. He won't know how to go hungry. It's going to be hard to keep him alive._

My sudden conviction surprises me. _It'll be hard, but I'm going to try. I'm not just going to stand around and let him get murdered. We're district partners, and we stick together._

_ I want him as an ally._

* * *

**Stin Jenkins, 16**

**District Eleven**

"Hey nerd," Theo whispers, hissing in my ear and distracting me from the Mayor's speech. "I'll bet you eight marks that the girl's gonna be older than sixteen."

I don't turn away from the stage, although my large brown eyes narrow considerably. "You know, I'm not an idiot."

"Really?" Steven chimes in. "Could've fooled me."

At this blatant attack, I'm forced to give up on listening to the Mayor's speech, and I join the fray in earnest. "I probably could've fooled you, Steven," I tell him. "You're a moron. You have a pumpkin for a brain."

"No I don't!" Steven hisses, unconsciously bringing a hand to his head to tousle his dark hair. "_You _have the pumpkin."

"Ladies, ladies," Theo says soothingly. "Settle down. Now, Stin, about the eight marks…"

I grimace. "First of all, Theo, we both know you're going to try and use those eight marks to get Tota to kiss you. Tota's not a prostitute, and even if she was she still probably wouldn't be able to kiss your ugly mug. Plus, we both know that the odds are overwhelmingly likely that the girl will be older than sixteen. _Plus, _you can't afford to lose eight marks, you idiot. You don't even _have _eight marks."

Theo pouts. "You don't have to be so mean about it," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm not mean. I'm lovely."

"Both of you shut the fuck up," Joel growls, smacking me and Theo on the back of our heads. "Moore is looking."

That quiets us. Moore isn't a bad Peacekeeper, not really, but he takes protocol very seriously. Whispering during the Mayor's speech is definitely something that would piss him off.

It looks like the speech is over, though. As the Mayor steps to the side of the stage, the escort, fidgeting awkwardly, moves towards the solitary microphone set up at the center. _Hm. I don't think we've had this one before. _His skin is an awkward grey color, and his hair is electric blue, and sticks out every which way. Nervously, he sidles up to the microphone, only to discover that it is too tall for him. Mayor Rhodes is a very tall woman, and she towers over the little escort. For a few minutes, he desperately tries to pull the microphone down to a suitable height. Finally Mayor Rhodes takes pity on him, loping over and easily lowering the microphone. Blushing, the escort stammers his thanks.

"H-hello, District Eleven," he stammers, clutching onto the microphone as if it is an anchor. "This is the 123rd Hunger Games—well, this is the _reapings _for the 123rd Hunger Games—well, I mean, not _all _the reapings, just the reapings for District Eleven…"

"What an idiot," Joel grumbles from behind me. "It's like the Capitol just wants to show us what they think of us."

"_He's _the one with the pumpkin brain," mutters Steven mutinously.

The little escort is wringing his hands. "Um—um," he stammers. "And now for the reaping! Of the girl!" He walks slowly towards the bowl—wait, no, that's the _boy's _bowl.

"Oy!" Theo shouts. "You're walking towards the boy's bowl, pumpkin face!"

"Pumpkin _brain, _genius," I correct him. "Talk about the pot calling the kettle black."

"Your face," Theo shoots back, unable to think of a better retort. I grin, clearly victorious. As soon as they start insulting your appearance, it's safe to assume that you've won the argument.

The little escort (who has still failed to introduce himself) bumbles towards the correct bowl, apologizing all the while. "I'm really sorry—I didn't mean to s-say that the girls and boys are the same or-or anything—sorry…" He reaches the bowl a sweaty, nervous mess. "I'm just going to go ahead and reap somebody," he whispers awkwardly.

_Poor little guy, _I think. _Hope they don't execute him for this. _Being an embarrassing failure as an escort probably isn't enough to justify murdering someone, but in the Capitol little things like that don't stop anybody.

Standing on his tiptoes, the escort manages to snag a slip. He looks at it a moment, eyes widening in horror. _Please don't tell me he can't read it, _I think. For a moment, he mouths several words that don't appear to make any sense. The silence stretches on.

Suddenly, his eyes widen. "Oh!" he exclaims, and flips the paper upside-down. Theo groans and smacks his forehead, and Joel growls something about Capitol morons. "Okay!" says the escort. Relief is clear on his grey face. "A-Acacia Rhodo-dodendron."

Whispers emanate from the fifteen year old girl's section. Moments later, a dark-skinned girl slips out of the crowd. Her face is a frozen mask, and her eyes are like glimmering black pebbles. Tears track down her cheeks. Her hair, a glossy black curtain that falls to just below her ribs, ripples slightly in the breeze.

My stomach contracts painfully. _This sucks, _I think, sympathetic. Acacia takes her time getting to the stage. She pads over the grass lightly, her slender form weaving through the crowd easily enough. She doesn't sob or whimper, but she is certainly crying. _That's not going to do her any favors._

The escort seems to shrink away from the girl. Her face still hasn't changed, and is frozen in shock. The tears running down her cheeks belie her distress.

"Um…" says the escort, tugging at her sleeve. When she slowly turns to look at him, he jumps. "Acacia Rhodo-dodendron," he whimpers. He doesn't bother to ask for volunteers. There's no point, I suppose.

The little escort takes a moment to remember which bowl is the boy's. By the time he figures it out, the audience is rumbling with jokes about his incompetence and guesses on who the male tribute will be. Only the boys of reaping age are silent. This is no time for laughter.

The escort snags a slip and retreats back to Acacia. She's stopped crying, but she still looks stricken. Nervously, the escort looks at her. "Um…" he says. "Acacia's district partner will be Stin Jenkins."

The vague nervousness festering in my belly becomes a full-on wound. It feels as though I've swallowed a razor blade, and said blade has burrowed into the lining of my stomach and is currently making short work of my intestines. A cramp of the legs threatens to see me fall to the ground, but Joel notices and catches me by the elbow at the last second.

Theo looks at me with horror in his grey eyes. "You better go, buddy," he whispers, in a husky voice. Shell-shocked, I can only nod. Joel lets go of my elbow and I stumble forward, pushing past the people in my way with a detached kind of roughness.

By the time I make it to the stage, the escort is rocking nervously back and forth on his heels. "Uh, hi, Stin," he says. I consider saying something, but I can't feel my tongue. When I don't respond, he turns a little greyer and slinks back to the microphone with his proverbial tail between his legs.

"Your tributes," he exclaims softly, raising a hand to indicate Acacia and me. I try to force my lips into something resembling a smile, but I find it impossible.

_The Hunger Games, _I think. _Oh no, no, not the Hunger Games. Anything but the Hunger Games._

I won't make it thirty damn seconds.


	4. Glass Menagerie

**Hello guys and welcome to the last "reapings" chapter, in which you are introduced to the last eight tributes! Whee, I'm very excited to finally get past the introductions stage, so we can head to the Capitol... I'm telling you right now, I have a fairly large amount of Capitol chapters planned, because I want everyone to get to know these characters before I start brutally killing them.**

**The Bloodbath is going to be awful! :)**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter, happy reading!**

* * *

_Goodbyes_

* * *

**Petal Rowe, 16**

**District Nine**

For a moment there, after that dumb bastard Loder called my name, I didn't react. I didn't think, _"well _shit, _he just called me," _because at the moment, I wasn't Petal Rowe at all.

Who was I? Can't remember the name exactly. I think it was "Naira" or something retarded. _Heh. _I smile a bit, licking my lips nervously. _Naira Murexes, I remember now._

So, who was Naira Murexes? Just an average 16 year old girl, reaping age (unfortunately). Naira never stood out in a crowd. Naira was small, thin, and fast. And most importantly, Naira could rob the _shit _out of the people standing around her, and if she was caught… Well. How could Naira's thievery affect Petal Rowe? Two totally different people, right?

_I should've disguised myself anyway, _I think ruefully, rubbing my tanned arm. _Maybe if I really sold the "Naira" act I could've gotten away with it. I could've disappeared into the district and nobody would have found me._

But I didn't disguise myself, didn't feel the need to. So when Loder shouted "Petal Rowe" into the quiet air I had nothing to fall back on. All of my stolen identities were stripped away until it was only me standing vulnerable in the crowd.

Damn. I _really _should have disguised myself.

I stand up, mussing my short brown hair with slender fingers. My hair is always messy anyway, so it's gotten to the point where I screw it up on purpose, just because I can. Why not? I'm not pretty. I'm just tiny little Petal Rowe, who could maybe be delicate if she tried. But I'm never going to try.

District Nine's Justice Building is a cavernous old building, not often used. The Mayor's office is in here somewhere… as was my father's, once. Before he retired. As such, I recognize this room, the one where they stuff the female tribute so she can say goodbye. It clearly wasn't meant for this purpose; it is a cavernous, dusty place, with dim light filtered in from strips that dangle from the ceiling. It's kinda creepy. If I hadn't been here before I'd probably be nervous as hell.

I glance towards the door when I hear the unmistakable sound of my father's angry voice. "This is _bullshit!" _he rages, and the door bangs open, shuddering in its frame. When he catches sight of me, the expression on his face cools down a bit, but he's still roaring mad.

"I've never agreed with you more," I exclaim, leaning against the solitary chair sitting in the center of the room.

Behind my father, my mother and brother file into the room. Both of them have been crying; when she catches sight of me, Mom gives a choked sob and rushes forward to envelop me in her arms. I squirm uncomfortably, slipping up one hand to pat her on the back. I've never been one for hugging.

She lets me go finally, and stares at me with red-rimmed eyes. Her mouth half opens, as if she wants to say something, but she shuts it again. Mom and I have never really gotten on. It isn't as though we fight a lot or anything. We just don't know what to say to each other. It's Dad and I that fight.

Thorn looks at me uncomfortably. He understands that I don't want to be hugged, so he doesn't offer, choosing instead to stuff his hands in his pockets. "Petal…" he says miserably. "I'm sorry."

I figure that a normal kid, like my district partner Kaiden, would be gushy in this situation. I _should _run over to my brother and apologize for all the times I called him a goody-two-shoes (even though he _is _a goody-two-shoes.) But he knows me well enough to see right through any act I put on. Instead, I just shrug. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, me too."

"This is bullshit," Dad growls again, glaring around the room as though President Pericles is right there, ready for throttling. "_Twenty-three years _I was Head Peacekeeper, and for what?! For my own daughter to get reaped?!" He swivels and kicks the wall in a rage.

Mom and Thorn are silent, watching him with wide eyes. It's not like he's abusive or anything, but both of them get all pussy-quiet when he starts raging. I'm the only one who can rage _back._

But right now, I'm just as mad as him, and for the same reason. "Damn right it's bullshit," I snap. "I'm fucked." Dad looks at me and starts to speak, but I cut him off. "Oh, don't try and tell me like I'm not. We all know how this is gonna go."

"Don't say that," mumbles Thorn.

"Why not? It's true. There are gonna be trained Careers in this Game. What the hell do I have?"

Dad gives me a look. "You run around with those _friends _of yours," he remarks drily. "Those… misfits. You've gotten into enough trouble with them."

That's true, actually. I've been in enough fights to know how to whack a person. But what's my experience versus the experience of some beefed-up muscle man from District Two with a sword as long as I am tall? Not fucking much.

Someone raps on the door. "Time's up." Dad turns to glare dangerously at the door, and I realize that the Peacekeeper on the other side is in for some serious browbeating.

Dad storms off, balling his hands into fists. He yanks open the door and almost immediately begins roaring at the unfortunate Peacekeeper, who I can hear vainly trying to defend herself. Mom and Thorn exchange glances and hurry out.

That's that, I guess. Bye Mom, bye Dad, bye Thorn. See you when I see you.

A few moments pass before my next visitor strolls in. I'm a bit surprised by her presence, and raise my eyebrows. "Oh," I exclaim, feeling suddenly awkward. "Hey there, Gina."

She glares at me. The affect is mostly ruined by her huge belly, swollen with eight months' worth of baby, but she's still got one hell of a glare. "You said you were a nobody," she says softly. "You said you were just another poor little district kid."

"Well, I lied. Does it matter?"

"Does it matter?!" Her whole body quivers. "All this time, you've been—you've been _Tag Rowe's _daughter! You probably had all the food and money you needed!" Her voice lowers dangerously. "The Underground was just a _game _for you, wasn't it?"

_Yes, _I think. "No," I say. At her unconvinced look, I hasten to explain. "The Underground was… was a family to me, Gina. Please. You have to understand."

She snorts. "No I don't, rich girl."

The thing is, she's right. The Underground, a group of misfits, losers, and poor idiots in general, is a haven to those of lesser means. For me, it was a diversion from my boring fucking life and my boring fucking family. I've been on adventures with these people that Petal Rowe could only dream of. Because I wasn't Petal when I was with them, of course. I was Naira, or Toxic, or Seraphim, or whoever the hell I wanted to be.

And now they all know who I really am. Every single one of them. I can only be thankful that our leader isn't here. _He sent his pregnant girlfriend instead, _I think drily. _Cainan, you ungrateful bastard. After all the money I made you and everything. _

Speaking of which… I reach into my back pocket and produce a tangle of bracelets, rings, and one necklace. "Here," I say, shoving them towards Gina. "Don't really need them where I'm going."

She accepts the treasures with an odd expression. It isn't quite forgiveness, more like acceptance. She backs towards the door and nods suddenly. "I'm sorry." And then she's gone.

I doubt many more people will be coming. So when the Peacekeeper from earlier announces that my final visitors are here to see me, I'm unsurprised. Carthage bursts through the door in mere seconds, his younger sister Antigone trailing behind him. Her wide blue eyes are filled with tears. Nice kid, not a part of the Underground (she's much too young.) Carthage is, though. He's the only one who knew about my real name, my real family. He was always damn good about it too.

"Hey, Petal," he says. "It's a bit different to call you your real name. What the hell was the last one? Naira? Fucking retarded."

Good old Carthage. He's not going to get caught up in prissy baby stuff like crying. Antigone is still sniffling, but she _is _a baby, so I'm not gonna judge.

"Hey," I say, dropping suddenly into the chair. "I'm fucked, huh?"

"By who?" asks Carthage. "You're too ugly to fuck."

"Man, screw you. _Life _is fucking me."

"Life doesn't have any class," Carthage decides, settling down on the arm of the chair. Antigone wobbles over and leans against my knees. Absently, my fingers find a strand of her long blonde hair and I begin to curl it. She whimpers softly and presses further into my knees.

"Are you gonna try to win, Auntie?"

"Not your aunt, kid," I remind her. Carthage told her I was her aunt once, and she never forgot. It's the only thing she calls me anymore, because she can never remember my new names. "But don't worry. I'm gonna try to win."

"Okay," says Antigone. She still sounds nervous. Well, we all know it's gonna be fucking hard for me to win, so why pretend any differently?

Carthage clears his throat. "I just want you to know that… you're a good friend, Petal. It's been fun. And I know that's sappy, but I'm not taking it back."

"Good," I respond. "Proof that you're my bitch. I always wanted it."

"Goddammit," Carthage mutters. "C'mon kiddo, we're going." He takes Antigone's hand and pulls her to her feet, dragging her to the door when she starts to whine. "Hey, Petal?" he calls, simultaneously opening the door and shoving a squealing Antigone outside. "If you don't win, when I die I'm going to find you, wherever the fuck you are, and beat the living _piss _out of you. Okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer, choosing instead to slip past the rapidly closing door.

"I guess I'll have to win, then," I say, but the room is empty and there's nobody left to hear.

* * *

**Anna Yarin, 18**

**District Six**

There are so many reasons to be afraid that I can't even think of them all. _The Hunger Games, _I think. _Dying horribly_. _Not getting any sponsors. Looking like an idiot in the chariots. Dying horribly. Mutts. Gamemaker traps. The arena, the Bloodbath. Dying horribly._

It always seems to come back to "dying horribly."

My teeth begin to chatter, despite the fact that the air inside the Justice Building is hot and oppressive. Every breath I take feels forced, as though I'm breathing through a film wrapped around my nose and mouth. The room is so cramped that there's barely enough space for the chair and the desk that I sit behind. As I wait, I absently open one of the drawers and pull out a slim notebook I find inside. But when I open it, I discover that the pages are all blank. Disappointed, I toss it onto the desk.

"First visitors for Anna Yarin." I glance up, and my bottom lip begins to tremble. I managed not to cry when my name was called, although it was difficult. _You won't get any sponsors if you cry, _I told myself firmly, as I tiptoed towards the stage. _And you'll stand out._

If I stand out, I'm lost. The Careers always hunt after the people they can remember. Everyone else they'll leave alone until their alliance falls apart or loses most of its members. If I can be so unforgettable that no one comes after me, I'll still have a shot. _And I did alright with that during the reaping, _I tell myself. _I didn't cry and I didn't say anything interesting. I'll bet the Capitolians have already forgotten about me, and the Careers will take one look at me and label me a non-threat. Okay, that's good. That's what I want._

The door opens with an awkwardly loud squeal. "Dad!" I shout, as he pokes his head into the room, and I launch myself at him. He's barely able to put his arms out before I'm curled around him with my face in his chest. Soothingly, he pats my back.

"Hey there, Banana," he says. "Hey."

His gentle voice and tone make it so much harder for me not to cry. To my horror, I can feel the tears pricking at the back of my eyes, and I hastily move away in order to compose myself. As I do I realize that my brother Chase has entered the room as well and is currently waiting patiently for a hug. "Chase!" I whimper, and crash into him. He's stronger than Dad and squeezes me tightly. Now the tears come, hot and fast. I sniffle miserably and bury my face in the crook of my brother's neck.

I can feel him swallowing, and his shoulders rise and fall erratically. "Anna…" he whispers, and I realize that he's crying too. I've never seen Chase cry, not ever. But I don't cry very often either. _There's a first time for everything, _I think, and grit my teeth. Because the time for me to try new things is severely limited now, isn't it?

Dad moves over and for a few minutes the three of us stand together. None of us are dry-eyed, although I am the only one flat-out sobbing. But the presence of my father and my older brother is so much better than being alone, and the tears eventually dry. Red-faced, I rub at my puffy eyes and try to swallow the mucus that has accumulated in my throat.

"D-don't worry, guys," I manage. "I'm gonna… I'm gonna try to fade into the background. Maybe they won't go after me if they can't remember who I am."

Chase nods rapidly. "Yeah. Yeah, Anna. That's a good plan. Don't do anything interesting, be boring, don't excel. Do an average job in training; show them the stuff they don't care about, like edible plants. Don't ally."

Dad coughs, and Chase turns to look at him. "It's just that Anna's mentor might know more than _you, _Chase," he says apologetically. "You don't know anything, son. No offense."

Somehow, this casual and loving insult brings a faint smile to my face. _They'll be alright, _I realize. _Even if I… if I die. They'll make it._

"Shut up," Chase mumbles. I can see a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips too, but it doesn't quite make it and his face lapses back into depression. If this is the last time I see my father and brother, I don't want to remember them looking like this.

"Hey," I say. My voice is still choked and the word comes out as a whisper, so I'm forced to repeat myself. "Hey," I say again, and this time it's louder. "Smile for me, brother?"

He tries, although the smile doesn't quite reach his brown eyes. Chase inherited Mom's eyes (at least, this is what Dad tells me, as I don't remember what Mom's eyes looked like) while I got a mix of Mom's brown and Dad's green. I like that. It's as if a little piece of both my parents is always with me.

We move in for another hug, and after that there's nothing more to say. If they prolong this it'll only hurt more, so I move them towards the door, tugging on my necklace all the while. I don't usually wear jewelry, but this is different, special. It was my mother's. Besides, it's nothing fancy: a small golden heart on a black cord. I suppose it will be my token, if nobody brings me anything else.

I return to my seat while I wait for my next visitor. He's not long in coming. After a few minutes of silence, the door squeaks open again, and Rick slips into the room. He, like Chase, immediately opens his arms, and I get up and practically fall into them.

Rick is my best friend. I have other friends from school as well (mostly boys) who I imagine might come to visit as a group. But if they don't, that's alright. I understand that it might be uncomfortable to see me like this. Rick is the only one I'm particularly close to.

After a few moments of hugging, we pull apart. "I'm so sorry," he says immediately. I thought I was done crying, but the simple statement has me tearing up again. Wisely, Rick doesn't say anything else, choosing instead to let the tears slip down my cheeks. After a moment, he reaches up and wipes a few away with his thumb.

"T-thanks," I mutter, brusquely dealing with the rest by wiping them on my forearm. "I'm glad you came. I'm scared."

"You can do it," Rick promises. "You're smart, Anna. And you're tall, just as tall as I am. That's gotta count for something."

"Maybe," I concede. "I guess it gives me an advantage…" My breath hitches in my throat. "Over _little kids. _I'm going to have to kill _children _to get out of this. I don't want… I could never…"

Rick's expression is heartbreaking. "I know, I know," he soothes, hugging me close as a new round of tears starts. "It's wrong," he breathes into my ear. "It's wrong and I hate it. But somebody has to win the Games, Anna. It would be better if it were you. Not someone who volunteered to kill other kids. _You." _He pulls away and stares me in the eyes. "I'm not going to make you promise to win, Anna," he says. "That's too much to ask. But… please… please try. Please don't give up. I _need _you."

Despite myself, I feel a faint blush creeping up my cheeks. Our faces are awfully close; I can feel Rick's warm breath on my lips. His expression shifts, and his eyes begin to shine… Abruptly he looks away. "Right," he says, voice unsteady. "Right."

_Something almost happened there, _I think, and grab Rick's hand. "I'll try," I tell him. "As long as I've got a chance, I'll try."

He looks at me with those glowing eyes and tries to smile. "You've always got a chance, Anna."

_I've always got a chance? I hope so, Rick. I hope so._

* * *

**Gander Gleam, 18**

**District One**

Someone put a poster of me up on the wall. The stupid thing doesn't do me justice, not really, but it feels good to know that I'm finally getting the recognition I deserve. I've been the chosen volunteer for months; it's about time somebody made the stupid posters. Every tribute gets one, and they're distributed in said tribute's home district (and sold in the Capitol.) Looks like someone got a head start on mine.

Smirking a bit, I examine it more closely. My hair sweeps across my forehead, looking like spun gold. The poster's got nice lighting, at least. My green eyes are dancing with excitement and my bronze skin is just flushed enough that I look perfectly healthy, robust even. Not that I don't always look like that, of course, but photographs never make me look right. I know what I look like, and I look _damn _good. This poster is a pretty accurate representation, but the real me is better.

"Gander Gleam!" is written across the top in bold white letters. To be honest, it looks fucking dumb. _When I win they'll be making better posters, _I think, but that doesn't actually excuse anything. _How are the Capitol girls supposed to fawn over this if my name looks retarded? _They'll fawn over me anyway, but it's only fair that they get a better poster for better fawning. My smirk grows as I imagine my likeness plastered in the bedrooms of every Capitolian girl who watches the Games. _And if there are any girls who aren't interested at first, they will be once I've won._

The door opens while I'm still looking at the poster. I consider glancing up, but whoever it is should probably know better to interrupt me when I'm in the middle of something important. However, when I hear a sharp "Gander!" I realize that my dad probably doesn't care whether I'm in the middle of something. He can be a huge ass sometimes.

Mom and Dad have entered the room and are currently looking me over, nodding to themselves. "Yeah," says Dad finally. "No doubt about it. We've got ourselves a winner right here." He shoulders Mom, and she chuckles.

"He'd better win," she remarks. "I've got good money on this boy right here."

"Of course I'm going to win!" I snap, stung. "How the hell could I _not _win?"

"He's right," Dad says. "This is a _Gleam _we're talking about, Silva. You were a Marchand before you married into this family, so your standards might be a bit lower than our norm, but he's a Gleam. He'll win."

Mom's smile is chilly. "I know he'll win, Jet," she replies. "He's _my _son."

"And mine," Dad says quickly. "Look at him. He's practically a carbon copy of me!"

"Oh, he might _look _like you, but he has my spirit in him," says Mom. "He's a fighter."

I can tell that this conversation is going to devolve into an argument if I don't intervene. And normally I _wouldn't _intervene, because it's interesting to listen to my parents arguing over who I take after, but we have a limited amount of time here, and it isn't their time, it's _mine. _"Hello," I say, clapping my hands to get their attention. They both turn to look at me, and I smile. "There we go," I say. "Enough of that. Where's my token?"

Dad smiles. "For the best tribute, the best token." He reaches into his pocket and reveals a small black box. I open it to find a silver cufflink nestled inside black fabric, polished and gleaming. I decide not to smudge it by picking it up, and close the box.

"It'll be a waste if we don't have long sleeves in the arena," I comment, "but I'm sure it will be better than the crap the outer district kids always bring." I chuckle as I remember the token that the boy from Nine last year had, some kind of woven bracelet. What's the point of jewelry if you make it out of fucking _wheat? _When the idiot died in the Bloodbath, I was cheering loudest.

"Of course it'll be better," Mom says smoothly. "Those brats from the outer districts always have embarrassing tokens."

"I guess that's everything, then!" says Dad cheerfully, clapping me on the back. "See you in a few weeks, son."

"We'll be watching," Mom promises, smiling proudly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes (of _course _she'll be watching, honestly) and manage to smile through a round of hugs. It is only once both of them are gone that I can finally laugh to myself. _So overbearing, _I think. _I'm the one going into the Games. I'm getting the fame, I'm getting the glory, and I'm going to be Victor. Not them._

I'm still thinking about this when Flash walks into the room. He has his trademark grin on his face, but I know how insanely jealous he must be. He's eighteen, just as I am, but was he chosen to be District One's male tribute? _That honor went to me, I'm afraid. _I don't know what he was expecting, honestly. There isn't a single field in which I don't excel, and there is nothing Flash can do that I can't do better.

"Hey, buddy," says Flash. "Going to the Games, huh? Must be… pretty cool, I guess."

"Yep," I say, nodding. "How does it feel to be looking at the next Victor, Flash?"

He grins, although it looks a bit forced. _Hah, I knew he was jealous. _"It's awesome," he drawls. "Just great. Although we can't be sure you'll win yet."

It's an offhand comment, but it strikes a nerve. "Yes we can. We can be _very sure _that I'm going to win," I say dangerously. "Who else is going to win? Ivory? That bitch isn't anywhere near as skilled as I am."

"I don't know," says Flash, shrugging. "I wouldn't underestimate Ivory."

That does it. I lunge forward, grabbing my so-called friend by the collar. He lets out an involuntary frightened squeak as I clench a fistful of fabric between my fingers, his collar cutting into his throat. "_I don't know," _I mock. "It almost sounds like you're underestimating _me, _Flash. And _that," _I growl, twisting the fabric tighter, "would be a stupid _fucking _idea. Whatever you have in your head about Ivory being some kind of competition is horse shit, Flash. She might be a Career, but when the time comes I will crush her. I'll crush everybody in that goddamn arena. And if you don't shut the _fuck _up about me being weak, once I win I'll come back here and I'll crush you too."

Flash gapes at me wordlessly. "You look like a fucking fish," I spit, releasing my tight grip on his shirt. He flops to the ground, massaging his throat and gasping for air, staring up at me with this wounded look on his face. "Oh, don't give me that," I snap. "You had it coming. What the hell's gotten into you, man? It's like you don't want me to win." _He's jealous, _I remember. _Bastard. What a shitty friend._

Flash manages to stumble to his feet. His eyes are bright with unshed tears (what a pussy) and he backs away from me slowly. "You _attacked _me," he manages finally.

I shrug. "And? If you don't remember, you were talking shit about me."

For a moment he seems tempted to deny it; then he realizes the idiocy of that choice and looks at his feet. "Bye, Gander," he manages finally, mumbling the words as though he feels obligated to say them. That's really not the kind of attitude my _best friend _should have on this auspicious day. I try to tell him, but he lunges for the door and vanishes before I can open my mouth.

I stare at his vacated space, incredulous. Then my skin darkens. "You _fucker," _I manage. "You little _bitch!" _That does it. When I get back home, the first thing I'll do is teach Flash a lesson about respecting his betters.

_Trying to screw up this day for me. Well, fuck him. I am Gander Gleam and I don't give a shit about his stupid problems and his stupid jealousy, because I'm going to win. No matter what…_

* * *

**Ashia Curore, 18**

**District Five**

_I probably shouldn't have done this, _I think, leaning back in the chair. It's a screechy old metal thing, and the chair legs squeal when I rub them against the floor. The room for goodbyes is narrow and the walls are lined with mirrors, so I can see the lanky girl leaning back in her chair, making it squeal. Strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back into a single braid that is currently pooling up on her neck, and her eyes… Well, I know my eyes are hazel, but they're too small for me to see properly, even when I squint.

_Poor vision, _I think absently, tipping the chair back a little further. _How can I win with poor vision? Not easily, huh. _I should've thought of that when I stepped forward. But I wasn't really thinking about the _Games _when I volunteered. Nope, don't really care about them, to be honest. It's the Capitol I'm thinking about. Even now, the idea that I will be _in the Capitol _in less than a day fills me with anticipation. The old Ashia, the boring one who thought things out and would never have volunteered in her long and mundane life, she wouldn't have particularly cared about the Capitol. But the _real _me, the fun-loving impulsive me, is about ready to explode with excitement.

"See, Wyatt?" I murmur, staring into the mirror. And it's almost as if I can see my ex-boyfriend standing behind me with that disdainful look on his face. "See?" I say again. "Who's boring now, Wyatt? Who's cold and boring and serious _now?" _I grin, red lips parting to reveal clean white teeth. _"_Certainly not me_."_

The door bursts open without any warning. The smile on my face withers and dies. _Mom and Dad, _I think. _I was hoping they wouldn't come. _Always pushing, always reminding me that I'm not good enough, always wishing that the old, _boring _me would come back… Half the reason I want to see the Capitol so much is because theyaren't there.

Both of them are wearing the same expression. Mom's eyes are huge and brimming with horror and Dad is pale and trembling. "Ashia," he says finally. "What have you _done?"_

I shrug. "Nobody ever volunteers from District Five," I point out. "We haven't had a volunteer in years! I'm just shaking things up a bit!"

Mom's expression twists. "_Shaking things up a bit?" _she repeats, pointing a trembling hand in my direction. "Have you gone insane?! Have you completely lost your mind?!"

"I hope not," I exclaim. "Half the tributes go nuts. I wanna be _special." _I grin crazily, flipping my braid and twirling it around one of my fingers. My tanned skin glows in the dim light and my teeth look like square pearls embedded in my gums. _Besides, this wasn't some slapdash decision, _I remind myself. _I've been thinking about this all year, ever since Wyatt told me what a boring bitch I was. I mean, I didn't think about the _Games _part, but it'll be fine. No worries._

Mom and Dad don't seem to share that mentality. "Ashia," says Mom. Her voice is trembling. "You are going to _die."_

I blink. "Ouch. Thanks for the vote of confidence." Then I yelp when she grabs my shoulders, her bony fingers digging into my skin. "Oww, Mom! Let go!"

Her eyes are filled with tears. "What is wrong with you!" she shouts. "Ever since that fucking boyfriend of yours broke up with you you've been nuts, fucking nuts! He was just a boy, Ashia; you could've had a dozen others if you hadn't done this!"

I manage to squirm away from her hands and move behind the chair to defend myself. "Stop talking about Wyatt," I say, coldly. All the playfulness has vanished from my tone. "He has nothing to do with this."

"He _does," _spits Mom. "I'm going to murder him."

"Fine," I exclaim softly. "The world would be better off."

Dad is breathing heavily. "Ashia," he says quietly. "How could you say something like that? Is that why you volunteered? Do you want to kill people?"

Now that the conversation has moved away from Wyatt, I feel more comfortable. "Depends. Maybe if they get _really _annoying…" I chuckle at my parents' expressions. "Oh, come on guys, lighten up! I'm only joking…"

"You are _joking _about _murder," _says Dad wonderingly. He looks at Mom. "Our daughter is joking about killing other people."

My mother looks at me with wide, disturbed eyes. "Do you want to die?" she asks me.

"Only if there's an afterlife. I hear the parfaits up there are excellent."

Dad lets out a choked whimper and covers his face with his hands, stumbling out of the room. I grimace slightly. It isn't as if I'm worried or anything, and he immediately goes and starts crying. _He's scared for me. He should just try not to think about it. Makes it easier._

Now Mom is the only one left. "I don't know what to say to you," she admits. "I would never have expected you to do something like this. Never."

"That's kinda sad. You _are _my mom."

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "The girl you used to be, she was my daughter. You… I have nothing to do with you." She turns and walks off before I can formulate a reply.

The thing is, she's right. The girl I used to be, the boring chilly girl from before, the girl that Wyatt laughed at and cheated on… That was her daughter. The new _better _me doesn't want anything to do with that old girl's mom anyway. So that's fine.

I consider sitting down in the chair but decide against it. I glance up as the door opens and a Peacekeeper pokes his head in. "That's all for you," he says.

"No other visitors? Damn. Nobody likes me." I pull a sad face, and he chuckles, although his laughter is slightly uneasy. All the Peacekeepers have been on edge recently, ever since the protest a few weeks back. I think one of them got killed or something. I wasn't involved in it, but there was a mandatory lockdown for three days after. And ever since they've been a lot harsher, and the newer ones like this guy have been jumpy as anything.

"You'll have to wait for the rest of the hour, I'm afraid," he says, with an apologetic shrug. "Your district partner has quite a few people to see him."

"Okay." The Peacekeeper pulls back and closes the door with a click, leaving me alone in the mirrored room. But I'm not really alone; all the reflections of me are smiling behind the glass. They look confident and happy, and that's how I _feel. _I'm confident, I'm happy, I'm excited, and I'm ready to go. This is going to be a blast, and I doubt I can wait five minutes for it, let alone a full hour... "I'm coming, Capitol," I whisper to myself, and I twitch a bit. "I'm coming."

* * *

**Lana Ermine, 17**

**District Eight**

_Calm. Deep breaths. This is fine, everything is fine, I can get past this. I can work with this. I just… need… calm._

Slowly, I wipe my moist palms on my soft yellow sundress. The fabric is smooth and pleasant to the touch. I remember when I was younger, when my parents were still alive, these kinds of dresses were the norm for me. But my parents are dead, and with them went their money.

I swallow shakily, balling my hands into fists. _First they take my parents, and then they take me. _I hunch over in the plush chair and grab a fistful of yellow fabric. _No. Calm. Deep breaths._

The room I'm sheltered in is quite a bit cozier than I expected, with soft colors and posters of Mason Quaite, District Eight's only Victor, plastered everywhere. The chair is soft and I have already burrowed into is as far as I can go. My legs are crossed and I tap out a beat on my shin with my forefinger while I think.

I need a plan. This situation is wholly out of my control, but if I can map out a plan for it I won't be completely lost. The reapings were alright, so I have a point in my favor there. I was wild-eyed but I kept my composure. My district partner, though… I swallow a bit, thinking about what happened there. He was confused. He didn't want to come up to the stage and he tried to bolt. In the end the Peacekeepers had to drag him up the steps. He howled and fought them the entire way. _Stitchell Hemmingway, _I think. _From the looks of him, he's probably retarded. _I grimace slightly. _Poor bastard. _I'd love to get inside his head, to understand the way he thinks. It must be very different than the way _I _think, but I can't know for sure until I get a chance to talk to him.

Of course, there's the chance that he won't want to speak to me because of my reputation alone. When my parents were still alive, when I was young and rich… I was a troubled child, I suppose. A snob. A brat. A spoiled little prick. And then they died and Grandpa Flax took me in, and I'd like to think that I've changed. But the others don't seem to see it. _"Don't talk to Lana," _they whisper. _"Rich bitch, thinks she's better than everybody else."_

I haven't seen Stitchell in school, which would suggest that he doesn't know about my reputation. Perhaps there's a chance with him. I'd only like to talk, after all. And I'm not usually one for talking; I prefer to let others fill the silence. But he interests me in spite of myself.

Right now I can't say where Stitchell fits into my (currently non-existent) plan, so I push him out of my head. _Only one can win, _I remind myself, _and it has to be me. I'm not going to give up, not ever. _In that vein of thinking, I need a strategy. What role will I play in these Games? It seems that the Victor of the Games always has some sort of niche. Vitus Sherrer, the twelve year old boy from District Two that won last year, was the excitable sweet little fellow who talked over whatever was being said and was everyone's friend. That didn't stop him from slaughtering his competition, though. His eyes were watering as he cut down his District Four ally in the final fight.

I, Lana Ermine, am neither excitable nor sweet. What does that leave me? I am observant, I suppose, but that is hardly an angle. I can be imaginative, but that's no angle either (or at least not a Victor's angle.) _I suppose that I can be boring, _I think. _Uninteresting. It won't gain me any sponsors, but it might just keep me alive for a while._

That's an interesting thought that I should work on, but it seems that I have a visitor now. I look up, somehow releasing my stranglehold on my dress. The door opens, and a moment later my grandfather is limping into the room. I automatically get out of the chair and take his hand, leading him to the seat. Grandpa can't stand for very long, as he was injured in some kind of factory accident long before I was born. He never goes into detail about the accident, but it has left his right leg a burnt, twisted mass of scar tissue.

He collapses into the chair with a huff of air. "Lana, my dear," he croaks, with eyes that are brimming with sadness. "My poor dear little girl."

I lean over and hug him, pressing my face into his wrinkled neck. "Grandpa," I whimper, feeling very small. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

We separate, and he nods gravely. It's odd to see my grandfather like this. He is a hardworking man, but he is always cheerful and calm. Now, though… His expression is as sad as I've ever seen it. He was never close with my mother, but now he is going to lose me as he lost her.

_At least he'll know what happened to me, _I think, rather bitter. _I won't just disappear like they did. _One evening they went for a stroll, and it appears that they strolled all the way to the afterlife, because they never did come home again. _I know it was them, _I think. _The Capitol. My parents helped them take control in the Third Rebellion, but they knew too much, they must have. So the Capitol watched and waited, and when the time was right they struck. _

It's only a theory. But it makes far too much sense to be wrong.

"You'll have to win, my Lana," says Grandpa. "I can't… I can't watch you… die." He says the word tentatively, as though if he brings it to life it will become my reality. _Die. No, he's right; I can't allow myself to die._

"I'll have to win," I agree, ignoring the clenched knot in my belly. "I can win. I can win." I say it twice to make it true. _I can win._

He nods, and I can hear his breath rasping in and out of his mouth. "It won't be easy," he warns me. "But I've made a hardworking girl out of you. You have the spirit to win, and the stubbornness." He smiles briefly. "You won't give up."

"No, I won't." I pace back and forth, heels clicking on the hard floor.

Grandpa reaches out and catches at my wrist. "Lana," he says, and I stop walking. "I have something for you." Reverently, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bracelet of woven threads. "I was saving it for your eighteenth birthday," he admits, "but now is as good a time as any, I suppose."

Quietly, I take it. The threads must not have cost him very much, but I can see that hours went into the weaving of this bracelet. When I was younger, I might have laughed, or tossed it back at him. _"I have bracelets made of real gold." _I can hear my younger self saying that.

Now it is a treasure. Carefully, I slip it onto my wrist. It fits as though it has always been there. I look up at my grandfather and I swallow harshly. "Thank you," I tell him. "I love it."

He smiles a bit. "Hug me, child," he says, and I do. Pressed into his warmth, I close my eyes and breathe as deeply as he's breathing. _Deep breaths, in and out. Calm._

_ I can win. I can win. I can win._

* * *

**Cian Typhon, 17**

**District Two**

He was supposed to volunteer. Creighton Atlas was _supposed to volunteer. _He was supposed to be District Two's male tribute for the 123rd Hunger Games. He was to bring honor and glory to District Two. He was supposed to win.

I stare at the poster hanging on the wall. Creighton grins down at me, his boyish face alight with excitement. My chest feels tight and I ball my hands into fists. _Why didn't you volunteer? You were supposed to volunteer! More to the point, why didn't anyone else volunteer? Why, why, why…?_

When the escort called my name, I was completely unconcerned. _Creighton will volunteer. _Three words that floated through my mind as easy as blinking, and calmed me. And I waited. Even when I found myself standing onstage, I waited. Even when there was dead silence after volunteers were asked for, I was patient. _He'll volunteer, _I told myself, and when he didn't, _well, somebody will._

Nobody did.

I let out a pained noise and slam my fist into the wooden chair's arm. The pain in my fingers is immediate and crushing and brings tears to my eyes. _This is not right. I am not what District Two is looking for in a tribute. Why. Didn't. Someone. Volunteer?_

I looked for Creighton in the crowd when I realized that he wasn't coming. Somehow I managed to spot him, just before they led us off the stage. His eyes were wide and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. I enjoy looking at people and guessing what's going through their minds from their expressions alone, so I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to figure out why he did it. _I think he's happy, _I decided, looking at his face. _He's happy that I'm going to die. _But that doesn't make much sense, because I've never spoken to Creighton Atlas in my life. Maybe he knows that I've never trained (he would never have seen me at the Center, I suppose.) Maybe that's it. _Or maybe he wasn't even happy at all. Maybe I'm just a hopeless guesser. _It's definitely possible.

I pull my injured hand towards my chest and cradle it in my other arm like a wounded bird. As my head tips down, tendrils of my dark brown hair immediately flop into my eyes. Mom is always telling me that my hair is too long, that I should cut it. Guiltily, I rub a long strand of hair between my thumb and forefinger. _I don't want to cut it. I like it the way it is._

My hair is perhaps the only thing I'll stand up for myself about. In addition to berating me about my hair, Mom is constantly reminding me that being a complete pushover is never going to help me in life. I guess she's right, but I can't help myself. It's the way I am.

Miserably, I hunch over in the chair. My eyes are stinging but I'm not going to cry. I don't want to venture in sight of the cameras with red eyes. I caught a glimpse of myself on one of the screens during the reapings and I was shocked to realize how impressive I looked. With my arms folded across my chest and my blue eyes narrowed into slits, I looked… well, I suppose that I looked rather imposing. I wasn't trying to. In fact, I was trying to look as neutral as possible. Do I really always look like that? It might explain why people avoid me at school. Interesting thought.

I don't realize that the door has opened until my family has crowded into the room. Mom, of course, is not present. She's been bedridden for two years, ravaged by a disease that none of us can understand, let alone treat.

The rest of the family, however, has come to see me off. _To see me off to die, _I think, and shiver. The once quiet room immediately explodes as everyone begins talking at once. Kane is spitting out curses and wildly waving his arms; my older brother has never been good at expressing himself. Alena, my fourteen year old sister, is half crying and half cursing like Kane. Silas' eyes are filled with tears. My youngest brother immediately goes for my lap, and I open my arms and hold him against my chest. "Ci-Ci," he whimpers.

Dad claps his hands together loudly and yells something, but I can't hear him over the noise everybody else is making. He sighs, grimaces, and takes a deep breath. "CHILDREN!" he roars, and Kane's mouth snaps shut, Alena is cut off mid-sniffle, and Silas gives a little sigh and presses his nose farther into my neck.

"Okay," says Dad quietly. "One at a time. You first, Kane." My brother looks decidedly uncomfortable about being singled out, and for a moment doesn't say anything. Then he glances down at his wrist, at the twisted metal bracelet he made once on a whim.

"Uh," he says. "Here, little bro." Awkwardly, he peels off the bracelet and hands it to me. "For your token," he says. His expression is dark, almost murderous, but Kane always looks that way. Silas too. And if anything can be said for my expression during the reapings, it might be that I always look that way as well.

I slip the bracelet onto my own wrist. It's a bit big, so I shove it down my arm until it finally catches. "Thanks, Kane." My brother was never good with his words, but I think I know what he's trying to say. He loves this bracelet; I've never seen him without it. If he's giving it to me, he must love me a lot. Kane would never say something like that, but now I know.

"Alright," says Dad, sounding choked up. "Your turn, Alena."

Alena has been quietly crying this entire time. She opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "It's just not _fair!" _she explodes, stomping her foot. "Creighton Atlas was supposed to volunteer! He was _supposed _to! He can't just do that to everybody!" She begins to pace in a circle. "And you don't know _anything, _Cian! You haven't trained. The Careers will _never _let you in!" She begins to sob again, futilely wiping at the tears trailing down her cheeks.

"That's alright," I tell her. "I don't want to be a Career."

She looks at Dad helplessly. "He doesn't _want _to be a _Career!" _she sobs. "He's going to _die!"_

"_Alena!" _Dad snaps, looking at her with huge eyes. "You can't say that! You have to have faith!"

Alena grimaces and doesn't respond. After a moment, she pads over and wraps her arms around me (and Silas, who is still resting in my lap.) "I—I love you, big brother," she mumbles.

"I love you too," I tell her.

When she pulls away, Silas takes it upon himself to start talking without any cue from Dad. "You're gonna try to win, right? Right, Ci-Ci?"

I try to smile. He hasn't called me Ci-Ci since he was five. "Yes," I promise him. "I'll try."

"Good." He curls back into my embrace, pressing his cheek against my chest and closing his eyes. I can feel his breath on my forearm, and I cradle my younger brother close.

Now Dad is the only one left with things to say. He takes a step closer to me and claps me on the shoulder. "You're a good boy," he tells me. "And I love you, son. No matter… no matter what happens in the arena… whatever you do, son, I'll always love you. You'll do what you have to so you can come back home, I know you will."

"Right," I exclaim, nodding slowly.

I suppose that there isn't anything more to say. I feel my heart drop as I ease Silas out of my arms and put him on the ground. He promptly begins to cry, blue eyes welling up with water. Alena takes his hand.

The four of them move towards the door, each of them stopping at least once to call over their shoulder. But they are gone soon enough. _And I didn't even get to see Mom, _I reflect. _I didn't say goodbye to Mom. _My eyes are stinging again, and I look at my hands curled up in my lap. I can feel the warmth of Silas' little body, but it is already fading. Soon it will be cold.

* * *

**Alder Stain, 17**

**District Seven**

I can hear them talking outside the door. A man and a woman, clothed in the white uniforms that delineate their chosen profession. They are Peacekeepers, and they are guarding me. If I open that door they will force me back inside, beating me down if necessary.

_It's fine, _I try to tell myself, but I hear one of them chuckling and I feel slightly queasy. _They have guns. They could kill me, just like they killed Will. _I grind my back teeth together, and I think about my poor, stupid, dead older brother. _Willow, you idiot, why did you kill a Peacekeeper? Why would you do that?_

He never got the chance to tell me why. I remember the night he came home with dark stains on his clothing and suggested we go out to play in the woods. I remember being particularly petulant (_"that's not _allowed, _big brother") _but he insisted, showing me the gap under the fence.

_"We'll play hide and seek," _he told me. _"You hide, and I'll come find you." _So I hid, buried myself in the leafy confines of a blackberry bush. And I waited, hearing his footsteps receding into the distance.

It was the last time I saw him alive. By the time I realized he wasn't going to come find me, he'd been shot so many times that he was barely anything more than a lump of man-shaped meat, and my parents had been whipped into unconsciousness, both of them. All because my brother's knife found its way into some Peacekeeper's jugular.

Sometimes I think about the Peacekeeper. What could he have done to incite my brother so? I'll never know, but sometimes I worry that Willow killed the man simply because he was a Peacekeeper. That would be the final cruel blow, because then… Then the people that killed Will would have been justified in doing it. My brother would have been wrong, and the people that shot him to pieces would have been in the right.

And now there are two of those people standing outside my door, chatting idly with each other. I highly doubt that either of these Peacekeepers had anything to do with my brother's death, but ever since that night… They make me nervous. The sight of those white uniforms makes me nauseous. I don't believe I've ever spoken to a Peacekeeper, preferring instead to get away before having to make conversation.

Still, they won't come in as long as I don't try to get out. So I remain in the intricately carved wooden chair, tapping my foot against the hardwood floor. I'm wearing my sandals, as usual; despite the fact that we're supposed to get dressed up for the reapings, I don't own anything better. But what does it matter? I've been reaped, and I have a hell of a lot more to worry about than my footwear.

There is a tap on the door. I sit straight up, suddenly tense. _Peacekeeper…? _The door begins to open, and my green eyes widen marginally. _No… no…_

My father steps into the room, and the tension melts from my body. My mother follows a moment later, and I feel a fierce pride for both of them. They both had the skin whipped off their backs following Willow's murder, but they were strong enough to brave the Peacekeepers in order to see me.

"Mom! Dad!" I launch myself at my mother, who is closer, and wrap my arms around her. She smells like baking bread and old pine needles, and I inhale the scent gratefully. Who knows if I'll ever smell it again?

I'm unsurprised to see tears dripping down my mother's tanned cheeks, her skin so similar in hue to my own. "Alder," she croons, rocking back and forth with me in her arms. "My baby. My baby boy."

I don't register when Dad joins the hug, but soon the three of us are wrapped into one embrace. Both of my parents are crying, and it's all I can do to prevent myself from crying as well. _If I start crying now, I'm lost, _I tell myself firmly.

Dad pulls away first. Awkwardly, he attempts to mop up the tears trickling down his cheeks, and when he realizes that the flow can't be checked he lets his arm fall limply to his side. "I… I want you to know that I love you, son."

I manage a smile. "I love you too, Dad." Other kids my age might be embarrassed saying things like that, but I've never been ashamed to make it very clear how much I adore my parents. "I love you both so much." I reach over and take my mom's hand. "No matter what happens…" My voice wavers and then breaks, and I take a moment to steel my resolve before continuing. "No matter what happens, you two have to keep going."

Mom squeezes my scarred hand tightly. "Oh, baby," she whimpers. "Please… Not like Willow…"

She can't articulate the rest of the sentence, and devolves back into a whimpering shell of a woman. Dad immediately moves to her side and puts his arm around her shoulder, rubbing soothing circles onto her back. "Shh, Thalia," he says gently. "Shh. It's okay."

She shakes her head but leans in to him, allowing him to comfort her. Watching the two of them, I can feel my heart breaking. My eyes sting and I begin to take shallow little breaths, practically panting. I look at my shoes and for a moment the room seems to spin. _This can't be happening, _I think, numb. _This… this can't…_

"Time's up!" I jump at the voice; for a moment I'd forgotten that the Peacekeepers are lurking outside. My parents look at each other and then at me, and pull me in for another soothing hug. No words are spoken; there's nothing left that needs to be said.

"I love you." The three words slip from my mouth as they are walking out the door. Mom somehow manages a smile through her tears, and Dad gives me a nod and a wave. And then they are gone.

There is a moment of fear when I imagine that the Peacekeepers will come to collect me, but it is short-lived. The door opens, but instead of Peacekeepers it is my best friends that are piling into the room. The four of them practically trip over each other in their haste to get to me. Rowan, Dinah, Pine, and Sarai. Four of the best people I've ever known.

It seems like they're expecting me to talk first, so I manage to make a smile for them. "Hey, guys," I say, leaning against the wooden chair. "I guess this is it, huh?"

At that, Sarai grabs me around the middle, hugging me tightly. "This can't be happening," she sobs. "This is just—this is the _worst, _Alder. Why does it have to be you?"

I grab her chin and tilt her face towards mine. "Better me than you," I tell her sincerely, and tap her on the nose lightly with my forefinger. "Don't cry. It breaks my heart."

"Oh, hell," says Pine miserably, and a moment later he crashes into the two of us, enclosing us both in his strong arms. He doesn't say anything, and I lean my head on his warm shoulder and close my eyes for a moment.

"This sucks," says Rowan miserably from behind him, rubbing his black hair with his hand. "I don't… I don't know if I can handle this. I can't watch you… die…"

"He's _not _going to die!" Sarai snaps, breaking free of our embrace and turning to glare at Rowan with fire in her dark eyes. "Shut the hell up, Rowan! You don't know anything!"

I put a hand on her shoulder as Pine releases me. "Don't," I tell her. "He's right." I rub the back of my neck, feeling suddenly awkward. "I… I probably _am _going to die…"

Sarai begins to cry again, staring at me and looking lost. Pine is crying too, so I pull him in for another hug and pat him lightly on the back. "It's okay," I tell him softly. Dinah is crying too, silently, so I let go of Pine and pull her in for a hug as well. Out of all my friends, Dinah is the one I've known for the longest. She's not one for hugs, but she leans into this one gratefully.

"You're my best friend," she whispers through her curtain of dark hair. "I love you."

"I love you too," I respond, and press my lips against the bridge of her nose. She closes her blue eyes and tries to smile through the tears.

Rowan is the only one who isn't crying, but I don't even know if he _can _cry. I've never seen him do it. Regardless, he looks as miserable as I've ever seen him. We've never hugged and I don't think now is the best time to start, so I clap him on the back instead. "Take care of yourself, man," I tell him. "Don't forget about me, hey?"

He looks up at me. "Sarai's right," he says decisively. "I'm not going to count you out. You're not dead 'till you're dead." He grabs my wrist suddenly and pulls my arm to eye-level. "You've got the scars," he says. "They'll make you look tough, right?"

"Those are from axe-throwing competitions, Rowan."

"That's good," Dinah says. "Throwing axes is a real skill. It'll help you… in the arena…"

We all go silent, as I work out what they're saying. I have a chance… It's not like what the Careers will have, but it's something. I'm not completely devoid of skills; I can throw, and I'll be able to wield an axe better than anyone else in that arena. It might not be perfect, but I'll be going in at least somewhat prepared.

The Peacekeeper knocks on the door again, making me flinch. "It's time," I say quietly. "You guys… my friends… You have no idea how much I care about you. You've been there for me throughout all the crazy shit that's happened. Thanks for sticking with me."

They crowd around me, making similar declarations, until one by one they peel away and exit, walking to the freedom that is now denied to me. Dinah is the last one in the room. "Don't die," she whispers, before she walks towards the open door.

"That's a tall order, love!" I call after her, and before the door clicks shut behind her I swear I can see her smile.

* * *

**Waverly Breeze, 18**

**District Four**

When I glance over at the fish tank set up against the wall, I realize that I can see my reflection in the glass. Pleased, I wander over and try to get a good look at myself. I can just about make out the blonde curls that cascade down to my shoulders, and my tanned skin is positively _glowing _today, but my emerald eyes look murky and brown. _"Gross," _I mutter, attempting to angle my face so that my eyes return to their natural color, but the grimy old fish tank just won't reflect them properly. Pouting, I give up and return to my seat.

I tap my manicured nails on the arm of the chair while I wait for my family to come wish me well. _The reapings went perfectly, _I decide, smiling a bit as I remember. _Everybody was cheering for me, and the Capitol _definitely _adored me. I mean, how could they not? I'm about three times as pretty as anybody else from District Four. They'll be falling over themselves to sponsor me._

Humming tunelessly, I cross my legs and lean back in the chair. _My district partner's so funny and awkward, _I think happily. _Bain was blushing just _looking _at me! And it was definitely me he was looking at, _not _Ceylon. That escort bitch isn't anywhere near as pretty as I am._

"Visitors for Waverly Breeze!" The door bangs open almost immediately, and my mother sweeps into the room. When she catches sight of me, she smiles brightly and envelops me in a hug.

"You looked _beautiful _up there, darling!" she sings. "Your hair was just right—and we spent hours working on that, didn't we?—and your dress… Perfect." She pulls back and smiles at me fondly, reaching out and pulling lightly on one of my curls in order to put it back in its proper place.

"I know!" I gush. "Did you see me on the screens? I looked _amazing."_

"Better than amazing!" Dad cuts in, giving me a hug as well. "You looked stunning, Waverly. Those Capitolians will sell their jewels to get you whatever you want in the arena!"

"And you'll be sponsoring me too. Right, Daddy?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you need, we'll buy it for you," he promises, grey eyes shining in excitement. "I'm so proud of you, honey. You're going to do so well."

My younger sister Sapphire is practically quivering with awe. "Oh, Waves," she says, hugging me fiercely. "You really did look great up there. I was standing next to Derrick and he said you were a _catch." _She winks at me, which makes me chuckle. Sapphire and I are very close, and she is the only person who will ever get away with calling me "Waves."

"Thanks, Sapph," I respond, ruffling her hair. "Maybe in a few years it'll be your turn, little sis! If we're lucky and no other District Four girls win between now and then, I'll even be your mentor!"

Sapphire grins excitedly. "That would be so cool."

"I know, right?"

Mom clears her throat. "We have to be going soon, Waverly. We need to get working on your image, and I want to start cleaning out the house for the final eight interviews. Have fun in the Capitol, sweetie! We'll see you in a month or so." She kisses me on the cheek, being careful not to mess up my hair or leave lipstick on my cheek. She's good about stuff like that.

"Good luck, Waverly," says Dad, "not that you need it!" He lets out a booming laugh as he hugs me, perhaps too tightly, but I'll allow it just this once. "I'll see you in a month."

"See you, Daddy!" I exclaim brightly, beaming at him. I'm not usually one for this sappy stuff with my parents, but I don't want to hurt Dad's feelings right before I go away to the Games. He's going to be my main sponsor, after all!

Sapphire leans in and gives me another hug. "I have something for you," she tells me, and reaches into her pocket. "Look, Waverly. It's sapphire!" She drops a simple ring into my palm. The band, I realize, is made of sapphires that shimmer in the light. I turn it back and forth and watch as it catches the light and reflects it.

"It's beautiful, little sis," I tell her sincerely, slipping it onto my ring finger. "I'm going to have the best token by far!" Sapphire giggles at that and gives me another hug.

I smile and wave until my mom and dad are out the door, and blow Sapphire a special kiss. While I wait for my next visitor, I admire the ring on my finger. It really is very special; I wonder where Sapphire got it. _I'll have to give her a token like this when it's her turn to volunteer, _I decide.

There is a knock on the door. "Come in!" I call, and smile as my best friend Coral steps into the room. Coral has blonde hair like mine (but it's nowhere near as voluminous) and freckles which she tries to hide with powder. Poor girl. I often find myself feeling bad for her; after all, she's always hanging around with me, and I'm so much better-looking in comparison.

"Oh my _gosh, _Waverly," Coral says immediately. "You know your district partner? Bain Arnon? I found out that he like _never _trains. Apparently he prefers art or something lame. Plus, he's _adopted." _She steps closer to me and gushes on. "Apparently his dad left his mom so she left Bain, and then some guy found him and took him in. Isn't that _crazy?"_

"Yeah, sure," I say. "But why are we talking about Bain right now, Coral? He doesn't matter, remember? This is_ my _big day."

"I know, but… Bain's kinda cute," Coral admits, blushing.

"Coral, you think every guy is cute. Come on; let's stop talking about him now."

"Fine." She looks put out for a moment, but then she recovers. "So apparently most of the gamblers voted on you instead of Bain! I think like eighty percent of them think you'll last longer than him! And thirty percent think you're going to win!"

"Only thirty percent?" I am disgusted. "What the hell?! Who else is going to win?"

"The others just don't want to put down money because they don't know you'll win yet," Coral assures me. "When the competition starts dying, they'll start betting. On _you." _

"I guess," I say, but I'm still wounded. Honestly, only _thirty percent? _Those are terrible odds! "Yeah, they'll see," I say aloud. "Once I get down to the final eight there won't be a single person in any of the districts betting against me."

"Exactly!" says Coral happily. "It'll all work out fine in the end." She looks a little sad. "I hope Bain doesn't die_ too _early, though. I like him."

I roll my eyes. "He dies when he dies, Coral. I mean, he _is _going to die, so you shouldn't get too attached."

"Mm," she says, still looking mournful. Then she glances at her watch. "Oh shit, gotta go! I'm meeting Tarsi in like five minutes!" She rushes forward and gives me a fleeting hug before bolting out the door.

I roll my eyes again and lean back in the chair. I'm still fuming about the "thirty percent" thing. _Thirty percent, _I think to myself, fingernails digging into my palm. _Well, I'll show them. I'll show the seventy percent who don't think I can do it. Because I'm going to win. I, Waverly Breeze, am going to be the Victor of the 123__rd__ Hunger Games._

_ Screw their odds. I have this in the bag already._

* * *

**What's this? An author's note at the _end _of a chapter?! Goodness!**

**This note is to let you guys know that there is now a poll on my profile, asking you which tributes you'd like to see survive the Bloodbath. I _will _take the poll into account when deciding deaths (although this is certainly not the only thing I'm basing death decisions on, so don't be too concerned.) Now that we've met all the characters, I think it's fair to have the poll up. However, I'd suggest waiting on voting in it until you've seen more of the characters and know more about them. However, if you think you already know your favorites, feel free to vote :) I promise I'll give you ample time to vote before I close the poll, and I'll tell you when I close it, so don't vote in a rush because you're worried about missing it.**

**Why was this at the end of the chapter? I wanted to make sure you read about the last eight tributes before voting, so as to be perfectly fair. I am an honorable author. :3**

**Ciao for now!**


	5. Heart of Darkness

**Hey guys! I actually have kind of a lot to talk about in this author's note (I know, I know, boo) so I'll just get right on that.**

**1. Fairly fast update, no? I don't know if you guys prefer fast updates (because we get to the Games faster) or slower updates (because it gives you more time to catch up/ read.) Please just tell me which you prefer and I'll do my best to accommodate you.**

**2. Shorter chapter! Now that I'm not doing 8 POVs a chapter, they _should _be shorter. So if you hate long chapters, you're welcome :)**

**3. Non-tribute OCs. That's what this chapter is. I debated writing this for a while, and then just went ahead and did it despite my reservations. Basically, there's a subplot going on, and while it's somewhat important the tributes are _more _important, so if you'd prefer to focus on the tributes, I totally understand. This chapter features 5 of 6 non-tribute OCs of mine. There used to be 7, but I killed Tris in the prologue. RIP :'(_  
_**

**4. A lot of people wanted to know how many Capitol chapters there will be. I'm planning 13 (including this one.) Another one of those chapters will be focused solely on non-tribute OCs. Again, sorry if you hate that. I think it's fun~~ oooh~~~**

**That's pretty much everything. Also, for the record, reading the poll results is fun :D**

**Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

_Interlude I_

* * *

**Pullus Evander, 6**

**Capitolian **

There's something bad in that box. I don't know what's in there, and neither do Uncle Tails or Merula, but they both keep on looking at the box and making that unhappy face, so I know whatever's in there is bad.

I like Uncle Tails' house. It's bigger than mine, and Merula will sometimes play with me if she isn't too busy. Uncle Tails is always busy, though. Mommy used to say that "that moron is always sitting around" but Uncle Tails doesn't sit around anymore. Being Head Gamemaker is hard work, Mommy says.

I kick my legs a bit and look at the box. We don't know who brought it here; Merula nearly tripped over it on the steps this morning because she didn't know it was there. It says _"To the Head Gamemaker, Zenith Tails. We will not be ignored." _I was proud that I could read the word "ignored," because that's a big word.

We're all sitting in the kitchen, me and Merula and Uncle Tails. The chairs in the kitchen are made of wood and they are uncomfortable to sit on because of my wings. Mommy let me have them for my sixth birthday. They are black and they have scales, like dragon wings! I can't fly with them (Mommy wouldn't let me go to the roof for weeks after the surgery because she thought I'd try to fly) but they're really great and can flap and _everything. _Other kids only have tattoos or dyed skin, and I have wings! That's a really expensive surgery and I thank Mommy every day for letting me have it.

Uncle Tails has already scanned the box for explosives, and he says there aren't any in the box, so it's okay for me to be here. Mommy wouldn't think so. If she thought there was something bad in the box (which there definitely is) she'd make me go play with my toys in my room. But Uncle Tails never makes me go to my room. I think Merula told him that I don't like it.

I miss Mommy, but I'm glad she isn't here right now. I get to see what's in the box, and everyone is treating me like a grown-up instead of a little boy. Mommy is at home right now; this is my special vacation with Uncle Tails and Cousin Merula. Even though Uncle Tails is busy, he let me come. He's a good uncle.

Merula glares at the box, biting her bottom lip. "It's addressed to you," she says, looking at Uncle Tails. "You should open it, Dad."

"I should," agrees Uncle Tails. His skin looks kinda grey, like his hair. Uncle Tails isn't very old though. Mommy says he dyes his hair grey because he wants to look _intellectual. _I don't know what that means but Uncle Tails' hair is definitely cool.

"I _should_," says Uncle Tails again. "But I don't want to." He shakes his head. "I don't know what's in there… it's going to be bad. I know that much. Whoever sent it wouldn't have sent it to me if they didn't want to make a point."

"Right," says Merula. She looks at the box again, and makes that face that they've both been making. "I don't want to open it either," she confesses. "But we have to."

"I'll open it!" I say, wriggling in my seat. "I'll open the box!"

Both of them turn to look at me. "_No," _says Uncle Tails, looking horrified. "Definitely not, Pullus. You shouldn't even be here."

"Don't make him leave," says Merula. "He deserves to see."

"I know he does," says Uncle Tails. He smiles at me. It isn't one of the big smiles that he sometimes makes, but it's enough to show that he cares. "You're a good kid," he says. "Do you want to stay?" His smile is gone now.

I beam up at my uncle and my cousin. They're so nice to me, and they don't baby me like Mommy does. I love coming over to their house. "Yeah," I tell him. "I wanna stay!"

Uncle Tails sighs and drops his gaze. "Then you can stay," he says. "Your mother isn't going to like it… but you can stay."

Merula puts her head in her hands. "Aunt Corona's going to murder you, Dad," she says. "You can stay, Pullus," she adds, when she catches my unhappy look, "but your mom's going to kill my dad."

"Really?"

"Not really, Pullus," says Uncle Tails. "She'll be mad, but I mean a bit more to your mother than _that." _He smiles again, but he still looks sad, and a little scared. "I think it's time. Last chance to leave, Pullus."

There's no _way _I'm going to leave now! This is my one chance to see what's in the box, and I'm not going to lose my chance. "Uh-uh," I tell them both, shaking my head. "No, I wanna see what's in the _box." _The base of my left wing itches so I reach up to scratch the scaly skin. Then I make the wings twitch a bit (they are _so cool.) _"I'm gonna stay."

Uncle Tails nods but doesn't say anything else. "Stand back, Merula," he says. "I did a general scan earlier but they might have slipped something in there that the scanner wouldn't be able to pick up."

"Don't open it, then," says Merula, sounding nervous. "We're not going to die for those bastards."

Uncle Tails shakes his head. "We're not going to die," he promises. "That's not what this is about. This is a message; whatever's in the box is a message for me." He puts his hands on the lid. "Ready?"

"Ready," says Merula.

"Ready!" I yelp.

He nods, takes a deep breath, and lifts the lid. The box is just big enough that I can't see what's in there, but Uncle Tails can see. His grey eyes get as wide as saucers, and his lips begin to tremble. Then he clamps down on them with his teeth and they stop.

"What…?" asks Merula.

"What is it?" I demand.

Uncle Tails reaches into the box and pulls out Ginger Jinnah's head.

My jaw drops and I want to run away, but I feel all frozen. Ginger was the _best _Peacekeeper. Before she got sent all the way to District Five she worked in the Capitol. She and Merula ended up being friends; Merula even got invited to Ginger's birthday parties and _everything. _Ginger told me that she'd invite me too but I was too little (I hated that.) Since she was Merula's friend Uncle Tails invited her over for dinner a lot, sometimes when I was visiting. She was really nice and funny. _And now she's dead._

Uncle Tails is holding up Ginger's head by its dirty red hair. For a second it looks like Ginger is smiling, but I realize that her cheeks have been slit, from the corners of her lips to the back of her head. There's crusty blood all over her face. She used to have brown eyes, but they're gone now. There's black stuff in the holes where her eyes used to be, sticky black stuff that trails down her cheeks and mixes with the crusty blood. Uncle Tails touches it with his other hand. "Tar," he says quietly. "They put tar in her eye sockets." He looks angrier than I've ever seen him before as he drops the head back into the box. I can hear it go _thump, _and I feel sick.

Merula looks even angrier than Uncle Tails. I realize that she's clutching the tablecloth so hard that her hand has gone all white and bony. Slowly, she stands up. Merula has black hair and black eyes that I think have been dyed, and today she's wearing all black. She looks really scary right now, especially because she's so pale and angry-looking.

"Any clues on who did it?" she asks quietly, looking into the box. Standing, she can see poor Ginger's head, but I can't from where I'm sitting. I'm glad.

Uncle Tails reaches into the box and I can hear him moving the head. "I doubt there are fingerprints," he says, "and her body oils would interfere with them." He leans closer to the box. "Judging from the blood on her cheeks… I think they slit her open while she was still alive."

"Ah," says Merula. She is still very quiet. "Pullus?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Are you okay?" She still looks very scary but at least she's being nice to me.

"Yeah," I whisper, even though I feel achy and sick and frozen. "I'm okay."

"You shouldn't have seen this," says Uncle Tails. "I'm sorry, nephew. I should have made you leave."

"No," says Merula. "It's good that he saw it. He liked Ginger, Dad. Maybe he can help me."

"Help you do what?"

"Kill them," says Merula. "Find whoever did this, and kill them."

Uncle Tails looks into the box again. "When the time comes," he says, "I'll join you." He grabs the lid to the box and puts it on, hiding Ginger's head away. "I need to send this to her family," he says. "They need to know that she died because of me. She died to be my _message." _He says the word so quietly that I can barely hear it.

Merula nods. "I have work to do as well," she announces, but doesn't say what. Instead she marches out of the kitchen and into the hallway so fast that I barely see her go. I feel suddenly cold and I grab at my wings, clumsily wrapping them around my small body. _I feel sick. I feel really sick._

Uncle Tails picks up the box and turns to me. "Pullus," he says. "Are you sure you're alright?"

_Yes, _I want to say. But when I open my mouth so I can say it, I vomit instead, right onto Uncle Tails' nice white floor.

* * *

**Corona Evander, 36**

**Capitolian**

I hate this city. I really do. The noise, the crowds, the _people… _It's more likely to see someone with purple skin than it is to see someone with the skin color they were born with. _I should never have given Pullus those wings, _I reflect miserably, _but he loves them too much for me to take them away now._

Thinking about my son makes me nervous. Tails was as evasive as ever when he called and told me to come immediately. _"Pullus is fine," _he said, _"but we have to talk."_

_ We have to talk. _As I weave through a crowd of chattering teenage girls, I reflect on those words. My brother is naturally grave (a sad trait that he has passed on to his daughter) but he sounded so somber over the phone that I don't think his tone was a result of his propensity for dourness.

Tails lives in the center of the Capitol. _To be in the center of the action, _I think grimly. The city is massive, so huge that Pullus and I are able to live in the outskirts. They call where we live the Country. The housing costs so much there that even Tails' Head Gamemaker salary wouldn't be enough to cover it. But my husband was a wealthy man, and when he died I inherited his mansion _and _his fortune.

As always, thinking about Valentine makes me frown. He died a month before Pullus was born, struck down by some kind of flu. By the time the doctors were able to make it to the Country, he was dead. Ever since I've had a doctor in my employ who lives on site. I don't worry about myself very much, but if Pullus were to die I would never forgive myself.

I have Tails' address memorized, but I'm still not sure I'm going in the right direction. It is only when I reach a gate and two armed Peacekeepers appear to block my way that I am sure I've taken the right path. One of them holds out his hand. "Government employees only beyond this point, miss."

"I am Corona Evander, sister to Zenith Tails. Head Gamemaker." I smile sweetly at them, simultaneously pulling my identification card from my purse. "May I go through, please?"

The second Peacekeeper pauses a moment to examine the picture on the card before nodding. "Have a pleasant day, miss," he says, opening the gate for me. I manage to smile at both of them before I breeze past them. As soon as they can't see me, I stop smiling. _Pleasant day, hah. There's bad news on the way, I can feel it._

The area of the Capitol reserved for high-ranking government officials is quite a bit less busy. It is also three times as dangerous, mainly because most of the people who live here will know me on sight and will want to stop and chat. _If I have to listen to Dolabella Hatchet talking about her stupid dog _ever again, _I'm going to go mad._

Thankfully, I don't run into Dolabella Hatchet, or anyone else who will drag me into an unnecessary conversation. By the time I make it to Tails' complex, it's past noon and the sun is beating down on me. _I shouldn't have worn the wool, _I reflect, shrugging my shoulders uncomfortably. The dress scratches at the skin underneath, and I feel a bead of sweat trickling down my side. _I should really think about these things before going out. _My blonde hair has been pulled back into an intricate up-do, but it is still long enough to be dreadfully uncomfortable in the summer heat.

I ring the bell and wait, one hand pressed against my hip. I count thirty seconds before the door bangs open. My niece Merula is on the other side of the door, and she looks, in a word, awful. Great grey bags hang under her black eyes, and she's paler than I've ever seen her.

She doesn't smile when she sees me, but she looks relieved. "Aunt Corona," she says. "Come inside. Quickly." Then she glances down the empty street with a look of naked suspicion on her youthful face.

_I don't like this. _"What's going on, Merula?" I ask, crossing the threshold into the house. Merula immediately slams the door shut behind me.

"Dad's in the kitchen," she says. "He'll explain." She starts to walk past me, but I grab her shoulder. Immediately she whirls around with bared teeth, trembling like she wants to sink them into my throat. I grimace and pull away from her.

"Hello to you too, niece."

She has the grace to look ashamed. "You don't understand," she says softly. "We're at war, Aunt Corona. They threatened my father, and that threat extends to all of us."

"Who are _they?"_

"Kitchen," my niece says. "Go to the kitchen and we'll all talk."

_Tails really has rubbed off on her, _I reflect as I follow her into the kitchen. _She's… dark. There's unhappiness in that girl that my idiot brother has probably only nurtured. _Even as a baby, Merula was a strange little thing. _It didn't help that Tails was so young. Fifteen and a father. _He never did tell me who the mother was, just showed up one morning with a baby in his arms and a lost look on his face. I'd think that maybe he found the baby, or stole it or something, but they look too similar for it to be an odd coincidence. I once spent six weeks delving into my brother's past in order to discover his mystery woman, but I never found anything.

Merula enters the kitchen with me in tow. Tails is sitting at the table with his head in his hands. Merula takes a seat across from her father; I remain standing. "Tails," I say softly. "Where's Pullus?"

My brother looks up. His face is as stony as always and yet there is a haunted look dancing in his grey eyes. "He's upstairs, asleep," he says. "Sit down, Corona."

"No," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "What the hell is going on, Tails?! Merula looks like she swallowed a bottle of bleach and you… I don't even want to say what _you _look like."

Tails pinches the bridge of his nose. "If you faint, I can't promise that I'll catch you."

"If you don't get to the point it'll be _you _who's fainting, Tails."

He settles his hands flat on the table and looks me in the eyes. "Someone sent me Ginger Jinnah's head in a box."

There is a roaring in my ears. "Y-you're joking?" I ask faintly. Simultaneously, Merula and Tails shake their heads.

My knees feel weak. I manage to drag a chair towards me and collapse into it. "Jinnah was the one you were friends with, right?" I ask, directing the question at Merula. My niece nods tightly. She doesn't look as though she's been crying; the only thing I can see on her face is rage. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," says Merula, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I have the tag," says Tails suddenly, pushing it over towards me. I hold it to my eyes and read the inscription: _"To the Head Gamemaker, Zenith Tails. We will not be ignored." _"They called you 'Zenith,'" I point out. "Nobody who knows you calls you Zenith."

"They don't know me," says Tails. He blinks slowly. "I'm told that there's something going on," he says. "Unrest. Protests. Somebody out there is angry." He grits his teeth. "Angry enough to murder an innocent woman and call it _justice." _His eyes gleam. "What the hell did Ginger Jinnah have to do with the Hunger Games? It should have been me." His laces his fingers together and lowers his voice. "It should have been me."

I smack him on the back of the head. He yelps and covers the sore spot with his hand, turning to glare at me with a question in his eyes. "You moron," I grumble. "Don't ever say it should have been you. Do you_ want _to die, Tails?"

"Nobody wants to die, Corona."

"Then shut up and be thankful that your daughter didn't get _your_ head in a box."

"I still might," Merula interrupts. "Whoever did this is still out there. President Pericles is under the impression that this is some kind of group, originating in District Five. That's the last place Ginger was seen alive. She was with two other Peacekeepers who wouldn't have been easily subdued by one person alone." She makes a fist. "_Rebellion," _she breathes. "This is flat-out rebellion."

The three of us are quiet as we consider the implications of this statement. "War," I say quietly. "Do you think it will come to that?"

"I hope not," says Tails. "I don't know if we would win." He says it so casually.

"We might not win? Of course we'd win!" I fix my brother with a look of horror. "We have the weapons of mass destruction, Tails."

"We can't exactly use them on District Five without poisoning ourselves," he replies. "Those weapons are more of a threat than anything. A bluff. If this escalates into a true rebellion… We cannot let that happen."

"Why not?" asks Merula softly. "These rebels with their shit weapons and lofty ideals won't last very long against the might of the Capitol. I promise you that."

"Then you don't know very much about war, Merula," says Tails. "They won in the Second Rebellion with the same shit weapons and even loftier ideals."

A silence descends on our little group. "You have to stay here," says Tails finally. "Varro—ah, President Pericles—has invited all of us to the Presidential Mansion for the duration of the Games. We'll have an excellent guard there, I'll be closer to my work, and Pullus will have the vacation of a lifetime. I think we should take the President up on his offer."

I nod, complacent for once in my life. "Pullus is in danger," I realize. I don't care whether or not Tails' danger extends to me as well, but if it extends to my son I will do everything in my power to protect him. "The Mansion is as safe as it gets."

"Exactly," says Tails. "After the Games things should settle down." He sighs. "Perhaps I should let one of the tributes from District Five win," he muses. "Asher Krytes or Ashia Curore."

"You know the tributes already?"

"Reapings just finished up," says Merula. "Dad was supposed to go into work today, but after we found Ginger… We just watched the reapings on television instead. Like everybody else." She smiles bitterly.

I look at my brother and my niece, who are both hurting so obviously. Neither of them particularly likes physical contact, and I am well aware of this as I reach for their hands. But neither of them pulls away. "They killed one of us," I say quietly. "Perhaps we will have to let this simmer and be forgotten by everyone else. But _we_ will never forget." I squeeze down on their hands. "We will find them. Maybe it will take years. Maybe it will take decades. Maybe Pullus will be the only one of us still alive by the time they are found. But when we _do _find them… They'll be wishing for a nice box to put their heads in by the time we're done. I promise you that."

* * *

**Katarya Clemence, 26**

**Rebel Leader**

"You don't have to do this," Silver says, wringing his hands. "There are other ways. _Better _ways. We could threaten him—torture him—"

I sigh heavily, putting my head in my hands. "It's too late, Silver," I say quietly. "It's much too late for anything like that."

His face falls. I remember there was a time when I thought Silver was gloriously handsome. And he _is _handsome, with his pointed chin and defined cheekbones. And that hair, black as pitch. He gels it into spikes (which I think is a bit ridiculous) but apparently it's some sort of fad in District One, his place of origin.

Handsome or no, I can never be with him the way he wants me to be. Every time he looks at me I can see the desire dancing in his eyes. _"I would die for you," _he told me once, and I know that he would. He loves me, loves me as fiercely as I love the cause we fight for.

I assume this is why he rejects the idea of my marriage so strongly. I think that a part of him believes that if I can only remain unmarried there is a chance that I will grow to feel for him. I can't bring myself to dash his hopes, so I let him dream. _Perhaps one day I will regret it, _I muse. _Perhaps he will abandon me some day. _I have other lieutenants, but Silver is the closest thing I have to a friend.

Silver sits down beside me at the desk. "This is dangerous," he reminds me. "If Qoro realizes what you are, he'll kill you himself."

"I doubt it," I respond, tiredly picking up one of the many love letters Qoro has sent me and reading it over. "He is infatuated with me." I remember how disturbingly easy it was to seduce him; as Chief Peacekeeper he is required to make frequent visits to every district in order to inspect the Peacekeepers under his command, and on one of his visits I approached him. We made plans to see each other again, and things went from there. After a year he asked me to marry him. I, of course, accepted. _And now my marriage is days away, and I don't feel anything. _When I was younger, I imagined the joy I'd feel on my wedding day, after the traditional District Five ceremony. I imagined hiking up my skirts and leaping over the electrified cables with my hand being held by my beaming husband. That is a somewhat antiquated tradition (they say that in the old days, the cables were so electrified that touching one would kill) but it excited me.

Now I will be married in the Capitol, and the ceremony will not take place. _Well, _I muse, _it is only a sham of a marriage, so why bother with the ceremony? It doesn't have to feel real to me._

"I hope so," says Silver darkly. "If you die, this whole rebellion goes down in smoke." Then he glances around us nervously. It is more of a habit than anything else. There are certainly no listening devices in Carter Krytes' basement.

"If I die, I expect you and Jakob to continue our work," I respond.

"How?" asks Silver, leaning against the desk. "We need you to get Qoro to name Jakob his successor as Chief Peacekeeper. There's no other possible way Jakob will get the position. He's a rat from District Ten, remember?" He grins wryly. "And then, as soon as Jakob is the successor, you'll kill Qoro."

"Indeed I will," I reply. Silver grins at that, which rubs me the wrong way. "I'm not happy about it," I tell him. "You shouldn't be happy either. Killing is a serious business."

"Right," he says, but he doesn't look convinced. "Except it wasn't so serious when we were promising that Ginger girl she'd get to live, was it?"

"It _was _serious," I snap. "Do you think I enjoyed doing that, Silver? She should never have told us how close she was to the Head Gamemaker. She sealed her own fate." I sigh, pulling on a strand of my dark red hair. "I hate going back on my word," I confess. "We swore that no harm would come to her if only she answered our questions. And then we tortured her to death, and sent her head to Zenith Tails. Apparently he received the package today." I press my fingertips to my temples. "Sometimes I wonder if we're doing the right thing."

For a moment, Silver doesn't say anything. Then he laughs quietly. "We watched the Games together last year," he says. "Remember?"

"I remember."

"And do you remember when the twelve year old girl from District Seven burned to death? She lasted seven minutes before dying, and I couldn't even recognize her as a human being when they removed her body." His mouth is set in a grim line. "Do you remember when the boy from District One, from _my _district, tried to kill the girl from Ten? Do you remember how she grabbed his head and pressed it into the coals from her cooking fire? He lasted quite a bit longer than the girl from Seven, despite the fact that his eyes burned out and dribbled all over his cheeks." He slams his fist onto the table. "If we aren't doing the right thing," he says, "then I'd rather you slit my cheeks and cut out my eyes like we did Ginger. I'd rather that than stay alive for one more minute in this hell."

I'm quiet for a while, thinking about what he said. "You're right," I admit finally. "I'd kill a thousand Gingers if it would stop the Hunger Games."

"Before we're done," says Silver, "you'll have to."

I get to my feet and begin to pace, as I often do when I have too many thoughts. "Carter wants to break them out of the arena," I say. "It won't work."

"Of course it won't," says Silver. "That plan is meant for the Quarter Quell."

"I doubt it will be ready by then, either," I admit. "We've had to put that plan to the side recently. Perhaps we should bring it back up to the front and center."

"Perhaps," says Silver, "but not this year." He grimaces. "I think you should leave someone else in charge of the rebellion in District Five. Carter can't handle it."

"He can," I respond.

"He can't. That's his kid brother in the Games, Katarya. If we give him power and his brother dies, he'll slaughter every Peacekeeper he can get his hands on, and everything we've worked for will fall to pieces."

"Carter won't do that," I respond. "I have every confidence that he'll behave admirably."

Silver shakes his head. "You're making a mistake."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

"We can't afford for you to make any." He moves closer to me. "Take me with you to the Capitol."

I shake my head, as I do every time he asks this of me. "No, Silver. The Capitol is not ready for a rebellion of its own. I'm not even sure that District One is ready. Which is why I'm sending you there." He makes a face that I ignore. "You're from District One, Silver. If anyone can convince them to change their views on the Hunger Games, it's you."

"Half the people there are crazy," Silver complains. "Did you see the kid who volunteered this year? Gander Gleam? He really, truly wants to be a tribute. If you think I'll have any luck convincing those people that the Hunger Games are wrong, you're out of your mind."

"I probably _am _out of my mind, Silver." I move towards the wall and the hatch for the maintenance tunnel. "I'm going to go now. Qoro is coming in less than an hour and I ought to look the perfect bride." I say the last with a bitter smile on my face.

Silver gets to his feet. "This is the last time I'll see you in person for a while," he says. "But as long as you've got the communications system working we'll be able to interact with each other pretty well." He moves closer and for a moment I'm worried he'll try to embrace me, but he offers me his hand instead. "Until we meet again."

"Until we meet again, lieutenant." I shake his hand firmly. Then I open the maintenance hatch and slip inside, sealing myself into the darkness.

The maintenance tunnels lead all the way to the outskirts of District Five. Fortunately, my home is also at the outskirts of District Five, and once I emerge from the tunnel (covered in cobwebs and grime) I make good time.

By the time I reach the door, the sun is high in the sky. My house is unlocked; I own nothing of value and I don't keep anything regarding the rebellion in my home. _No, I simply foist that risk onto Carter and his family, _I think grimly. He volunteered for the "honor" (as he called it) but it still feels wrong. _Still. Now that I'm leaving for the Capitol, we won't have to meet in Carter's basement anymore. That should reduce his risk._

My house is more of a cottage than anything else. In the center of the district the houses are squat, ugly affairs, linked together in rows. Out here, in the poorest section of District Five, the little hovels are spread out randomly. I open the door and slip inside the darkened house. I can't afford electricity for lighting, and I hardly need it. Silver is always able to dig up candles for me.

I had the foresight to leave some water in the wooden barrel I use as a tub, which rests in the kitchen. I strip down quickly and slip into the water. It is cool and unpleasant against my skin. Gooseflesh covers my arms, but I make sure to dunk under the surface. When I emerge, water dripping down the back of my neck, I feel cleaner, lighter. It is a rare feeling, but a good one.

I step out of the bath and shake my head, water droplets slapping the walls. Then, naked, I pad into the other room, the bedroom, and locate the dress I've laid out on my bed. It is far too expensive for me; everyone had to pitch in so I could afford it. _All to steal this man's heart, _I reflect, as I pull it onto my lean frame.

I have exactly fifteen minutes to meet Qoro by the time I'm finished preparing myself. My hair has been neatly combed and pulled back to reveal my face, and I've put on some of the powders that Capitolian women adore so much. I'm not beautiful (despite everything Qoro might say) but I think I look decent enough. _He'll tell me that I'm lovely no matter what, _I think. _I could be wearing my suit and he'd tell me how fantastic it looked._

I only have a small bag of things to bring with me, and I hoist it onto my shoulder and leave the house. After I'm gone the sad little hovel will be used by members of the rebellion. I don't know who; that will be up to Carter. Now that I am leaving, Carter Krytes is the official leader of the rebellion in District Five, as Silver will be in District One. Silver leaves for his district tomorrow, in fact.

I make the walk into town quickly, spurred on by the fact that I only have ten minutes left. Several Peacekeepers catch sight of me but are uninterested; they have bigger things to think about. _Like the mystery Peacekeeper killer, _I think. _Perhaps they ought to pay a bit more attention to me after all._

The train station is buzzing with activity; it appears that the tribute train is still in the station. Apparently the tributes are still saying goodbye to their friends and family, or perhaps they are on their way here. My train is smaller, sequestered in a corner of the station that is free of cameras. I take a step, and then stop. _This is it, _I think. _This is my last chance to turn back. If I get on that train, I will be Qoro's bride in a matter of days._

I can see him standing there, waiting for his fiancée. He is immaculately groomed in a tailored suit. A bouquet of flowers is clutched in his hand, and he looks nervous and excited, all at once.

_There's no going back, _I decide. I take a deep breath, smile, and call out the name of the man I'm going to kill.

* * *

**Zenith "Tails" Tails, 34**

**Head Gamemaker**

The four of us are huddled together, doing our best to keep as close as we can to one another. Corona clutches Pullus' hand, and Merula is standing so close to me that her hair brushes against my shoulder.

It is an uncomfortable way to walk, but when I suggested the formation everyone agreed that it was for the best. The streets of the Capitol are crowded with unfamiliar faces, and after this morning's events nobody wants to risk anything. The President's Mansion is not so very far off, but if someone was able to drop a box with a head in it on my doorstep, this area is clearly not safe.

My cheek is still stinging from the slap Corona gave me when she discovered that I allowed Pullus to see the head. She might have done more, but Pullus started crying and begging her not to kill me. Corona was forced to comfort her son while I escaped into the other room to splash water on my injury.

"We're almost there," Corona is telling Pullus. "Just a few more blocks."

"I don't want anyone to put my head in a box," mumbles Pullus mutinously. "I _like _my head where it is."

"We all like your head where it is, darling," Corona soothes. "Nobody is going to put your head in a box."

"If they even try it, we'll kill them," says Merula coldly. Corona gives her a warning look, but my daughter's words have not affected Pullus. His eyes are still downcast, and his wings are wrapped around his skinny frame. I don't believe I've ever seen my nephew look so frightened, but his expression is hauntingly familiar…

_Terance Ryiane, _I think. _He reminds me of Terance Ryiane. _They do not resemble each other, but the expression Pullus is wearing now and the one that Terance had on when he was reaped are exactly the same. I swallow harshly. _What are the odds that Terance Ryiane will survive? They aren't very good and he knows it._

"Look, Pullus," says Corona. "See those big gates over there? We've made it." The relief in her voice is obvious. Merula and I share a look and move closer together. I am unarmed, but Merula has a pistol jammed in her belt. I was unsure whether or not to allow my daughter the use of a pistol, but I don't think Merula will ever fire in anger. Besides, I'm well aware that my daughter is a good shot. It is worth the risk.

There are several Peacekeepers stationed at the gate. When they catch sight of us, they move to the side and the gate rumbles open. "Happy Hunger Games!" pipes up one of the Peacekeepers, a pretty young woman with dark brown hair. I can't bring myself to respond to her words, but Pullus smiles and waves at her and Corona manages a terse nod.

The grounds of Varro's mansion are peaceful. The air is fresh and smells cleaner than the air in the rest of the city. Birds chirp in trees that I'm assuming were genetically enhanced to throw out just the right amount of shade. Pullus hears the sound of water splashing in a fountain and wants to go explore, but Corona grabs the tip of his wing in the nick of time and pulls him back towards her.

The great double doors that lead into the Mansion are already open. A small group of people is waiting for us. As we draw closer to the group, I recognize the three of them immediately.

Varro Pericles is at the center of the group. Despite being twice my age, his hair has yet to turn grey and his skin has yet to wrinkle. I asked him once if he had undergone cosmetic surgeries of some kind in order to maintain his youth. He laughed. He does that very often.

To his right is Aquila Morestes, his Secretary. Her position is second only to his, and she is well aware of this. The smile she levels at me is cold.

On Varro's left side is Buteo Morestes, Aquila's husband. I often used to wonder what purpose Buteo served in the government, until Varro took pity on me and enlightened me. _"Buteo is a genius," _he told me solemnly. _"Probably mad as well. But he's a genius."_

"Tails!" Varro exclaims, pulling me into an embrace that I barely attempt to resist. When he lets go of me, his expression is somber. "I understand that Miss Jinnah was a friend of yours. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Sir," I respond. I almost never call Varro "Sir," but we are in public and appearances must be maintained. "But Merula is the one grieving. Ginger Jinnah and my daughter were very close."

"I see," says Varro, turning to Merula. Before she can wriggle away, he grabs her and squeezes her into a bone-crushing hug. "I'm so sorry, Merula. This must be a difficult time for you."

"It—is—" she manages to grunt, although she is probably suffocating in my friend's iron grip.

Varro finally releases her after ruffling her hair fondly. "Corona!" he exclaims, turning to my sister. "You're looking lovelier than ever."

Corona grins. "Thank you, President Pericles. The same goes for you."

He laughs. "I wouldn't want to make a liar out of you, Corona!" His gaze travels downwards, to the awe-stricken Pullus. "And this must be Pullus," says Varro. "I've heard quite a bit about you, little man."

My nephew's brown eyes widen. "R-really?"

"Really!" Varro affirms. "All good things, too."

Aquila steps forward with a chilly smile on her face. "My husband and I welcome you to the Mansion," she says. "In the wake of this personal attack, we are only too happy to host you." Buteo doesn't say anything, choosing instead to leer at Pullus. Uncomfortable, my nephew slips behind Corona's legs.

"Well, enough of that," Varro interjects. "Come inside, come inside! You've got work to do, Tails, and I wouldn't want to keep you." A grin spreads across his face. "But first, lunch!"

_We're safe, _I think, as the tension begins to leave my body. _All four of us are safe. We _will _be able to work through this, no matter what it takes. My family will be protected._

Nothing else matters.

* * *

**Merula Tails, 19**

**Capitolian**

Lunch at the Presidential Mansion turns out to be an extravagant affair. "We'll be having five courses," President Pericles tells my father, slapping the table in front of him for emphasis. "Appetizers first, then a soup, then the main dish, then cheeses, and then desserts." Pullus looks nearly catatonic with joy, and even Aunt Corona seems pleased. My father is smiling a bit as he listens to an amusing story President Pericles is telling.

I am seated at the very end of the table; even Aquila and Buteo Morestes are closer to my father than I am. Pullus and Aunt Corona are separated from me by Buteo Morestes, and I don't think talking past him would be a good idea. _There's something off about him, _I think, glaring at his bald head. It still has tufts of grizzled black hair in certain places. He wears glasses, which shocks me. Only the poorest Capitolians are unable to afford the surgery that corrects poor vision.

He catches me looking and turns to smile at me. His smile is obviously meant to intimidate but I don't look away. I raise an eyebrow. _If you have something to say, go ahead and say it._

"See anything you like?" he asks me. The brashness of such a query shocks me; Buteo is three times my age, and married besides. Thankfully, Aquila seems absorbed in a conversation with Aunt Corona and does not turn around.

"Not particularly," I respond. Buteo guffaws at that and slaps me on the back. I jerk away from him in surprise, which only makes him laugh harder.

"You know, you're the first person I've asked who's answered honestly," he giggles. His blue eyes are clouded with tears of mirth. He is ugly and on a certain level I am repulsed by him, and yet he fascinates me.

I frown a bit, but he ignores my obvious discomfort. "Do you know what your father did with the Peacekeeper's head?" he asks me.

"He sent it to her family," I respond.

At that, Buteo pulls a face. "That's a real shame. I could have used that head."

Some people might have reacted with disgust to such a statement, but I am intrigued. "What would you have done with a severed head?"

He cocks his head at me, smiling all the while. "Not much. It's the _brain _I'm interested in." His smile gets bigger, and he leans in towards me. "Fresh brains are the best. I'm sure yours is _quite _fresh." He draws out the word.

I can't tell if he's joking or not, but I refuse to be intimidated by this man. "Might be that you're right," I say casually. "If you can get your hands on my brain, Mister Morestes, you can have it."

He guffaws at that, howling with laughter and slapping the table, which makes the silverware rattle. His wife and Aunt Corona turn to look at us, and seem surprised when they realize that I am the source of Buteo's amusement. "You ought to be careful, making him laugh like that," says Aquila wryly. "He might decide to keep you."

Aunt Corona raises her eyebrows. "I'd love to see him try," she says, with the fakest smile I've ever seen her wear. "Merula isn't the type of person you can keep."

Aquila looks at me appraisingly. Her eyes are grey like my father's, but where Father's eyes sparkle with emotion, hers are dead. They seem incredibly familiar, and it is only once she looks away that I realize that my own eyes have the same dullness to them.

Buteo has stopped laughing and is now looking at something behind me. "Here come the appetizers," he says, sounding pleased. I turn my head and watch as the most dour-looking Avox I have ever seen carries a tray of prawns to the table, slamming them down in front of me unceremoniously. When I give him a look, he grimaces back at me before storming away.

"He seems upset," I muse, watching him go.

"Oh, he is," says Buteo happily. "That's my son's Avox, you know. Regulus is in Serkon right now and he didn't want to lose his precious Avox to the fighting there, so he lent the Avox to us. It doesn't seem like this Avox enjoys serving, though."

"Your son is in Serkon? I thought there was to be no interaction between our countries."

"Oh, there isn't." He smiles wistfully. "Regulus is in incredible danger. He'll probably be killed."

"You seem happy about it."

"I'm not," he defends. "I love my son. And I know that he _won't _be killed, really. His entire guard might perish, but Regulus will be fine. He always is."

_If he's your son, I don't doubt it. _I have a sudden wish that Regulus Morestes will be killed in Serkon, but I seem to share Buteo's conviction that he will return from the war-ridden country unscathed. _If he's crazy like his father and ambitious like his mother, he's probably a powerhouse. President Pericles should watch himself around that man. In fact, President Pericles ought to be watching himself around Buteo and Aquila. _Father doesn't trust Aquila Morestes, and I don't either. She was able to claw her way up from nothing, and now she is the second most powerful person in Panem. Why stop at second place?

The conversation with Buteo felt over, but it is apparently not, as Buteo is still looking at me. "Have you heard the news?" he asks. "Qoro Sertorius is getting married."

"Qoro Sertorius?" I have to think for a while before the name comes to me. "The Chief Peacekeeper. Is he really? To whom?"

"A woman from District Five who goes by the name Katarya Clemence," says Buteo. "Interesting, that a district girl was able to climb to such heights." He leans his chin on his hand. "Have you ever thought about becoming a Peacekeeper, Merula Tails?"

"An odd question. No, I've never thought about it."

"Perhaps you should. We could use people of your caliber defending the country. Your friend Ginger Jinnah died to protect Panem, did she not? What better way to preserve her memory than to take up her fallen mantle?"

I can't think of a reason why Buteo would want me to become a Peacekeeper. And yet the idea is strangely romantic to me. I have a brief mental image of myself in Peacekeeper white, patrolling a district with a gun at my hip and another in my hand. Watching. Hunting. _Finding the monster that killed Ginger, and ruining them._

Buteo is watching me carefully, so I nod. "Interesting idea. Maybe I will." A sudden urge to walk seizes me, and I get to my feet. Father and President Pericles both turn to look at me, and I force a smile onto my face. "May I be excused, Sir?"

"Certainly," says the President. "If you're looking for your room, just ask one of the Avoxes."

"Thank you, Sir." I nod at Buteo and leave the dining hall quickly, idly looking around for a figure in white.

Almost immediately, I spot the unhappy Avox from before. He is leaning up against a wall looking bored. When he sees me staring at him, he attempts to straighten up, and then rolls his eyes as he realizes the futility of it. "I don't really care if you just stand around," I tell him. "Do you know where my room is?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. A tendril of dark brown hair falls in front of his face and he shoves it to the side, annoyed. His fingers twitch and then he balls his hands into fists.

He is standing next to an end table, and I walk towards it. As I draw closer I realize that it is a desk, and I pull open the drawer and remove a pen and an old magazine that will serve as paper. The Avox's expression is unreadable, but he seems unsure when I press the pen into his hand. "What are you worried about?" I ask him. "Do you think I'm going to run into the other room and tell them that you wrote some words down?"

That steels his resolve. He puts his pen against the back of the magazine and looks at me with a question in his eyes. "Your name," I tell him.

_Kelwin, _he writes.

"Surname?"

_None of your business._

This intrigues me. "You're awfully non-compliant for an Avox." He doesn't have anything to say back to that, but he does roll his eyes again. "What did you do that was bad enough for them to rip your tongue out?"

For a moment, he stares at the paper. Then he bends over and writes it out. _I killed my mother._

"Don't lie to me," I murmur darkly. He shakes his head and jabs his finger at what he wrote. _"I'm not lying," _he mouths, slowly enough for me to understand.

"You _are _lying. You undergo the Avox surgery because of acts of treason. Political crimes and whatnot. Killing your mother is the kind of crime they'd execute you for."

He bites his lip and scribbles away at the page. _It was political. _

That's interesting. I have half a mind to question him more on the matter, but his crimes aren't what I came here to discuss. "Tell me something," I say. "You've been working for Buteo and Aquila for long enough." I lean closer to him and press my lips against his ear. He shies in surprise but I don't let him get away. "_What are they planning?" _I whisper, so quietly that even I can barely hear it.

He blinks and shakes his head. "Nothing? That can't be right." But he shakes his head again, determinedly, and then snatches the magazine and walks away towards the kitchens.

I watch him go. _Perhaps I should follow him, _I think, but I don't. It was stupid to ask him that question. Even if he did know anything, he wouldn't tell me.

Unbidden, my mind returns to the Peacekeeper idea, and the urge to walk overtakes me once more. I begin to pace, unsure of where I am going, while I consider the option. _A Peacekeeper. I'm old enough, and they're always asking for volunteers. I could find her killer. I could avenge my friend._

_ And then… _

_ Anyone who tried to stir up trouble would be in for one hell of a reckoning._


	6. Road

**Chugga chugga**

**chugga chugga**

**_CHOO CHOO!_**

**Hey guys! Here we are with a new chapter! As you might have noticed, this chapter took a bit longer than normal to come out: this is because while some of you prefer fast updates, it seems that the vast majority of you do not or are indifferent (I think) so updates will be coming out slower than they have to. Eyyy~**

**Also, first Capitol POV chapter! By the time the Capitol chapters are done, every tribute will have gotten two POVs. I could have done more but then the chapters would have been way too long, so I was like, "eh, two's fine." **

**Anyway, enjoy the train rides!**

**chugga chugga chugga chugga...**

* * *

_Train Rides_

* * *

**Ivory Margueax, 17**

**District One**

The rain is furious now, and it comes howling out of the sky to splatter against the pavement with an irritating hiss. My escort Piston doesn't seem put out by the rain as he shepherds Gander and me towards the waiting train. Gander, however, seems annoyed. He keeps on raising his hand to protect his blonde hair, and his expression is one of irritation.

Only when Piston has herded the two of us into the train does Gander relax. He lowers his hand and glances around the train car. I do the same, and find myself smiling. _They certainly know how to decorate. _It appears that we've entered into a sitting area filled with plush chairs, television sets, and various decorations. Gander flicks at the dangling chandelier with a raised eyebrow.

Piston lets out a rumbling sigh. "I can't stand all this prissy stuff," he confesses, lumbering past us and collapsing in one of the chairs. "I just want to see you two in _action!"_

Gander chuckles. "Don't worry," he says. "You'll be seeing that soon enough."

_He thinks a lot of himself. No doubt he'll attempt to be the leader of our little alliance. I wonder whether or not he'll succeed. _I'll have to watch the reaping recaps to figure it out. In any case, it can't hurt to be on Gander's good side. I turn to him with a smile. "I've seen you in training. You're very good."

"I know," he responds, smiling back. I rather hate his smile. "Stick with me and you might even make it to the final two, baby."

Ugh, he's so arrogant. I pull back, wrinkling my nose. "I'll have you know that I plan to _win," _I sniff.

"Well, you're sure as hell not going to," he snaps. "I'm the Victor. You'd better get that into your head."

I resist the urge to slap him, catching my wrist with my other hand in the nick of time. I have nothing more to say to him, and am relieved when the door opens and two people step into the train car. _Amaze Pennebaker and Steel Swann, _I think, gazing at them. Both have been present at the training center on certain occasions, and both had a part in choosing District One's volunteers.

Amaze is a tall woman in her thirties, somewhat plump despite her Victor status. She smiles at me sweetly, the skin around her blue eyes wrinkling. Both of her hands are behind her back—well, I suppose they aren't hands, seeing as they are made of plastic. Amaze is the winner of the 100th Hunger Games, the Quell in which only disabled persons were reaped. Despite Amaze's lack of hands, she was able to win the Hunger Games because of the love her alliance felt for her. She wormed her way into their hearts and let them kill and die for her. She killed one person in the Games, during the final fight. I suppose this is why she is able to smile and laugh while other Victors seem to have more trouble with it.

Standing next to her is Steel. His hair is almost metallic and seems to have been styled after his name. _He must be nearly sixty by now, _I think, looking at him. Despite the aiding factor of Capitol surgeries, his age is beginning to catch up to him. He is frail and paler than paper—although, come to think of it, I believe he has always looked that way. I remember watching his Games on tape; he was my age when he won the 83rd Hunger Games. He never thought he would win, and confessed as much to his allies. He was in shock when he killed his final opponent, his former ally from Two, and the trumpets began to play. I remember the way his grey eyes glimmered with adrenaline and an underlying emotion that might have been fear.

"Welcome!" says Amaze, clapping her plastic hands together. "My name is Amaze, and I'm going to be your mentor, Ivory."

"Pleased to meet you," I say, extending my hand for her to shake. Her hands look very real, but when I close my fingers around the plastic the ruse is up.

Steel nods at Gander. "And I'm Steel," he says quietly. "I'll be mentoring you, Gander."

"Right," says Gander. His expression speaks volumes. _I don't need a mentor. All I need you for is sponsor money, but don't try to give me advice, old man. _He's such a fool. These two have already won the Hunger Games. Any advice from them is invaluable.

"So let's talk strategy!" Piston shouts from his chair. "Come on, what's the plan?"

Steel sighs. "At the moment there isn't a plan, Piston," he says carefully. "We'll need to view the reaping recaps before deciding anything concrete."

"Then let's watch them!" Piston says excitedly. "Come on, the TV's right here!"

"We need to talk to our tributes first," says Amaze kindly, before turning back to us. "I'm assuming that both of you are planning on joining the Career alliance?"

"I'm going to be the leader," says Gander coolly.

"I have no such ambition. I'll be content with a position in the alliance," I tell Amaze. Of course, I'm also planning on ditching the Career alliance once it is no longer useful to me, but it wouldn't be a good idea to say that right now. I'll discuss it with my mentor in private.

She nods, having expected this answer. "Good," she says. "It'll be much easier to coach you two if we don't have to do it separately."

"Can we watch the recaps now?" Piston whines.

"Certainly," says Steel, pointing towards a television mounted on the wall. "Everyone find a seat," he suggests. I slip into a maroon loveseat; to my chagrin, Gander joins me a moment later. He leans back in the seat, kicking out his legs. Warmth radiates from his body despite the cool interior of the train. He might annoy me beyond measure, but it doesn't change the fact that he is incredibly attractive. Instead of cramming myself into the corner of the loveseat, I spread out a bit. Our shoulders are pressed together, but Gander doesn't comment on it, and it hardly bothers me.

"Reapings recaps," Steel tells the television, and a moment later channel 30, the official Hunger Games channel, flickers to life. Cicero Kapitan, the official interviewer, and Lactuca Greengrass, the official announcer, are seated behind a desk covered in Hunger Games memorabilia. After the standard banter, they begin to show the reapings. As they are in district order, Gander and I are first.

"Nice outfit!" Lactuca remarks as I volunteer. "I should get a dress like that." I smile, feeling rather proud, and ruffle the skirt of my black dress.

"She's almost as pretty as I am," says Cicero, fluttering his eyelashes. This earns him a slap on the shoulder from Lactuca. They both remark that, while I am attractive and intriguing, I seem too prim to come out on top. I am expecting this; I was rather hoping for it, in fact. The more I am underestimated, the better. I know I will get sponsors, after all. All that matters is that the other tributes retain this impression of me.

"Now here's a confident fellow," remarks Cicero after Gander volunteers.

Onscreen, Gander smiles and punches the air with his fist. "The name's Gander Gleam," he says. "Try not to forget it, because it's about to be the name of the Victor of the 123rd Hunger Games!"

"I won't forget, future Victor!" Lactuca giggles.

"Now this one I can see winning!" Cicero exclaims. "Mr. Gleam might be very right about the future Victor."

"_Might _be?" Gander growls. "_Will _be."

Before he can get himself worked up, the District Two reapings come on. The girl who volunteers, Isis Mortici, does cartwheels onstage, and a flip. _She seems… erratic. _After her, a boy named Cian is reaped, and to my surprise, there are no volunteers. _How odd! _Cian seems furious as he stands onstage. Amaze makes a sad sound in the back of her throat, and Piston grumbles about boring non-volunteers.

District Three is very typical, and soon we've moved on to District Four. The girl volunteer is practically naked in her ridiculous dress. I am embarrassed for her, although Gander and Piston seem anything but. A boy, Bain Arnon, is reaped, and again there are no volunteers. _Twice in one year, _I think. _The pack will be unfortunately small if neither of them joins. _From Cian's enraged expression, I don't see him being a member of our alliance, but Bain might be worth a shot.

Gander wants to turn off the television now that we've seen the other member of our alliance, but Amaze manages to persuade him to watch until the end. Several tributes end up interesting me. There is the volunteer from Five, which is a shock. _She must be mad, _I think. Then there is the boy from Seven who is covered in scars. _He might be worth looking into as a replacement for Cian or Bain. _Lastly, I am intrigued by the boy from Ten, who has clearly just been in a fight. _He's too young for the alliance, though. _

Finally, the small boy from Twelve is reaped, and Steel tells the television to turn off. Gander yawns and stretches. "Just like I thought," he exclaims. "A bunch of weaklings. I've got this in the bag."

_I have a bag I'd like to put you in, _I think. _ A body bag. _Gander might not find that amusing, but I have to resist the urge to smirk. That wouldn't be very ladylike, now would it?

Steel clears his throat. "It doesn't pay to be overconfident, Gander," he says mildly. "Any one of those tributes could be a contender."

Gander's face colors. "_Excuse _me?" he snarls. "You're telling me that the retard from Eight is a competitor? Or how about the tiny little bitch from Nine? You're telling me that they even have a _chance _of winning with me in the arena?"

Steel's expression doesn't change. "That's exactly what I'm saying," he says mildly.

Gander bares his teeth. "Then you don't know _shit, _old man," he says. "I'd show you, but I wouldn't want to break your brittle old bones." He stands up abruptly and shoves past Piston to exit the train car.

"Damn," says Piston. "He's gonna be fun to watch in the arena."

Amaze looks horrified. "What an awful attitude," she says fretfully.

"It won't help him in the Games," says Steel. "Half the Career tributes die because they're too confident in their abilities. I hope that won't be a problem with you, Ivory," he adds.

"I don't think so," I respond. "Although I would like to point out that I never lose, so my confidence in myself is perfectly justified."

"You _never _lose?" asks Amaze.

"Never," I tell her, and then I say it again for posterity. "Never."

"I'd best go after him," Steel mumbles. "Excuse me." He gets to his feet and hurries in the direction Gander went. After a pause, Piston gets up and follows him.

Now I am alone with my mentor. Amaze tries to smile at me, although the altercation with Gander has clearly upset her. "I just can't stand it when tributes have that kind of attitude," she confesses, clacking her plastic hands together. "It's just so foolish."

"I agree completely," I say mildly.

"Well… enough about that, anyway. Was there anyone that stood out to you in the reapings that we might ask about an alliance? You'll need more members if Bain or Cian drop out."

I think for a moment. "The boy from Seven with the scars," I decide. "He seems interesting."

"I'll be sure to bring that up with Reuben. His mentor," she adds, realizing that I haven't the faintest idea who "Reuben" might be. "Now," continues Amaze, "since the others are gone, is there anything you want to discuss with me?"

I can tell that she thinks I don't have anything else to say, that I am perfectly content with my role as a steadfast Career. _She doesn't think I'm going to win, _I realize. _She'd rather me than Gander, but she doesn't think it will happen._

So it is with great relish that I tell her how I'm going to kill him.

* * *

**Ashia Curore, 18**

**District Five**

The portion of the sleeping car that has been designated to me is a lavish affair, with plush bedding, a bathroom stocked with every type of appliance I can think of (and some that I don't recognize), and a closet filled with clothing. Biting my lip, I wander over to the closet and pull it open, examining my options. My necklace feels tight around my neck, but I can't bring myself to remove it. Wyatt gave me that necklace.

Wyatt is not only the name of my former boyfriend; it is also my mentor's surname. Isabella Wyatt kind of reminds me of a Career. She's harsh, no-nonsense, and… _Boring, _I tell myself. _She's a bit like the old me, but scarier. I don't like her. I definitely don't like her._

I haven't got much time left before I'll be called to rejoin the others. The escort, Sander, said that I would be expected at dinner in half an hour. That was half an hour ago. _These clothes are dirty and kinda sweaty, _I think. _I should probably change into something else. They gave me a whole closet for it, right?_

Thoughtfully, I strip off my white shirt and dark pants and kick them into the closet. My old, worn-out boots come next; I'm not sorry to see them go. I run my fingers across a dress that would probably cost a month's worth of tesserae to buy. _And now I have a whole closetful of dresses like this, _I think. _I wonder what other tributes did with their clothes. I bet the more rebellious ones burned them or something. And the others either wore their own clothes or caved in and wore the nice Capitol stuff. _

There is a knock on my door. "We're gathering for dinner, Ashia," says Sander. His voice is so dull that my eyelids droop. District Five officially has the most boring escort ever. I used to think he was cool because of the feathered wings he sports on his back, but I realized pretty quickly that he got that surgery to hide the fact that he himself is a boring person.

_If I win the Hunger Games, I'm going to get every surgery they offer, _I decide, smiling and humming to myself. My skin would be a whole lot cooler if it were red, or purple, or even grey like Sander's. _And multi-colored wings would be nice. No feathers, feathers are dumb. Maybe scales. And a tail while I'm at it!_

Oh right, I'm supposed to be heading towards the dining car. None of the clothing hanging in the closet has caught my attention, so I shrug and turn away. They'll have to put up with me in my underclothes. I snap the strap of my bra as I unlock my door and step into the corridor. The carpet out here is plush and I curl my toes into it, enjoying the buttery fabric against my skin.

Asher's room is directly across from me, and his door is opening. He steps out, catches sight of me in my state of undress, and freezes. "You're half-naked," he blurts. "What the hell? Are you trying to seduce me? 'Cause I barely know you, so that's kind of weird."

I laugh. My district partner is painfully awkward. That much was clear from the very beginning, when he bumbled his way to the stage after being reaped. He tripped over several people and was nearly in tears by the time he made it onstage. "You _wish _I was trying to seduce you," I tell him. "I'm actually just trying to raise appreciation, though."

He takes the bait. "Raise appreciation for what?"

"For my sweet figure." I do a little dance to demonstrate. Asher's eyebrows rise dramatically, and his almond eyes sparkle.

"Are you _sure _you're not trying to seduce me? I think you're trying to seduce me."

"I think you're just jealous of my tummy." I glance down the corridor, towards the dining car. "C'mon, Ashy, let's blow this joint."

"My name's _Asher," _he protests mildly, but he links his arm in mine when I offer it. Arm in arm, we walk down the sleeping car. The dining car is next, and when we enter it I can see that both mentors and Sander are already seated in front of what looks to be a feast.

The reactions to my getup are priceless. Isabella, who was holding some kind of serving spoon, immediately drops it and splatters herself with brown sauce. Chase, Asher's mentor, grimaces. Sander, of course, is too boring to react and continues ladling food onto his plate.

"The fuck are you wearing?" Isabella snaps, gesturing wildly.

"Not very much," I respond, pulling my arm free of Asher's. There are two free spots at the table, and I deliberately choose the one next to Chase, forcing Asher to sit next to my irate mentor.

"You know," says Chase, "if you're trying to impress us, you don't have to. Isabella is already going to do everything she can to keep you alive, and if you want to ally with Asher, all you have to do is ask him."

"I didn't come out here to impress anybody," I say, pulling my plate towards me. "Were you impressed?"

Chase rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He's thirty-four years old, and I know for a fact he is a perfect decade older than Isabella. Apparently he constantly rags her about it. Irritating Isabella seems like a dangerous pastime, so I have to respect Chase for doing it. He seems a lot more like my type of person than Isabella is.

Isabella is grumbling to herself. "Nobody's impressed," she says. "It'd be more impressive if you were able to dress yourself."

"But my mommy and daddy always did it for me!" I whine, in the most annoying baby-ish voice I can muster up. "I can't do it all by my widdle-bitty self!"

"Better learn fast, then," says Isabella, crossing her arms over her chest. "Look, food's here. Let's just eat and you two can try to forget that you're tributes for an hour. See how well Sander is doing?" The escort glances up at the mention of his name before shrugging and turning back to his well-stocked plate.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to _forget _that I'm a tribute," says Asher uncomfortably. "Maybe you can forget because you already won the Hunger Games, but I'm probably not going to win so it's all I can think about." He blinks owlishly at his empty plate, strands of copper hair dangling in front of his eyes.

Without thinking, I scoop up a portion of a creamy white mash that smells like potatoes and hurl it at him. It slaps him directly on his knobby nose, and he squeals in surprise and shoves his chair backwards. I double over in silent laughter, practically crying at the hilarity of it all. "_Ashia!" _the unfortunate boy exclaims, trying to get the potato out of his eyes. "What the hell?"

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Ashy," I manage, once I'm able to get words out again. "As much as I hate to admit it, Bella over there is right. If you keep on wallowing in self-pity you're gonna drown, baby."

He looks ridiculous, glaring at me with his nose covered in potato. "You volunteered," he reminds me, "so you wanted this. But I don't. So when you throw squashed potatoes at me you're not helping very much."

"That's what these are? Squashed potatoes?"

"I always thought they were called _mashed _potatoes," Chase interjects.

"Well, they aren't," says Asher primly. "They are _squashed _potatoes. I would know. I've read about it."

"Oh. Okay," says Chase, as though that settles the matter. "Anyway, Asher, that sort of thing could happen in the arena too. Except instead of squashed potatoes, she would have thrown a knife. Do you have a plan for that scenario?" He looks genuinely curious.

Then a fork connects with the side of his head, wiping his expression clean. "Hey, shut the hell up, Chase," says Isabella. "We're _forgetting _at this table, asshole. The next person who mentions the Hunger Games is going to get a lot worse than a fork in the face."

"The Hunger Games," I say, smiling sweetly. Isabella glares at me for a moment before throwing her cup of wine directly towards my eyes. The liquid stings but I mostly managed to close my eyes in time. When I open them again, Isabella looks as though she expects retaliation. I laugh instead, and laugh harder at her confused look.

"Let's eat," I say finally. "I'm starved." I first serve myself a heaping portion of squashed potatoes, and pour some brown sauce over them at Chase's urging. In the center of the table is a platter covered in slices of dark brown meat that Chase tells me is roasted duck. I take several pieces, and snag what looks to be a pastry filled with tomato and cheese as well. Lastly, I spear several stalks of bitter greens with my fork. I eat those first, I've never been a fan.

Someone has already filled my glass with a tart yellow liquid that looks (but doesn't taste) like piss. It _tastes _like lemons, and I locate the pitcher and pour several more glasses as I devour the meal. Most of the meal is quiet, as Asher and I have never eaten like this and are too amazed to waste time talking, and Chase and Isabella probably don't have anything to say to us that isn't Hunger Games-related. And Sander is boring. He's so boring I nearly forgot about him, in fact, but there he is, slumped over behind a bowl of fruit, either asleep or doing his best to get there.

I'm painfully stuffed by the time I'm finished eating. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Maybe I'm about to fall asleep like Sander, but I just don't care. This was worth it. I knew it would be worth it, and it was. We aren't even at the Capitol yet and I'm having the time of my life! _Wyatt was wrong about me. I'm fun and interesting and dynamic. Who even cares about the Hunger Games? Live in the moment. That's all that matters. Don't think about what's coming, just live in the moment and it'll be fine…_

* * *

**Anna Yarin, 18**

**District Six**

I can't sleep. I am wearing the silkiest nightgown I've ever had, I am burrowed in the softest blankets I've ever had, and I'm lying on the most comfortable mattress I've ever had, but it's no good. Every time my eyes start to close, I find myself in the arena. I have no idea what the arena will be this year, so my mind supplies the arena from last year, with its hellish landscape and ash-choked forests. I can almost feel the flames licking at my skin. And I open my eyes, covered in sweat.

After the fifth time this happens, I give up on sleep and get out of bed. I can feel the train swaying beneath my feet, but the movement is nowhere near violent enough for me to fall. Once I'm standing, I feel a bit better. _I can't write myself off yet, _I rationalize, running my hands through my light brown hair. _I don't know how things will turn out, so I can't automatically assume the worst. I did alright at the reapings, didn't I? No crying. _That isn't strictly true; I cried buckets when I was saying goodbye to my family and friends. But the first impression is the most important, and I think I did very well there.

My window is covered by a thin, waxy curtain that flutters every so often. I move it aside and gaze out into the darkness. We should be in the Capitol by early morning, I've been told. _Where are we now? _ I wonder, staring into the night. I can't see much despite the full moon, but I think I can make out some lights in the distance.

_This window is too small to see anything properly, _I think. _I should go outside. _I can't actually go outside, but I can stand between train cars in order to get a better view. It's kind of dangerous, but I'm sure I'll be alright. I'm well aware that these bullet trains have been built to minimize airflow in the small gaps between cars.

I pad towards the door and open it, stepping into the darkened corridor. The door slams shut a bit more loudly than I would have liked, and I hurry towards the door to the sleeper car like a guilty child. On the way, I pass one of the train attendants, who gives me a curious look. "Where are you off to?" he whispers. "If you want some food I'll bring it for you."

"No, thank you," I reply. "I'm going out. I want to see where we are."

He looks rather mystified, but bows slightly and smiles. "Have a pleasant time of it," he says, before hurrying in the opposite direction. _He seems like a nice person, _I reflect, before feeling a bit sour. _He's from the Capitol, though. _Ordinarily I wouldn't care about something like that, but after being reaped I've found that I'm feeling a bit less ambivalent towards the Capitol. I'm possibly even angry with them. I've never really had conflicting feelings like this before and so I don't really understand them, but I know that I care more than I ever did in the past.

_In the past I liked to pretend that the Games didn't exist, _I think, opening the door to the sleeper car. _I suppose there's no point in denying it now. They exist, and it's going to take everything I have if I'm going to win._

It is only when I step onto the metal platform in between the cars that I realize I am not wearing shoes. The metal is unpleasantly cool against my soles, but when I stamp my feet lightly I feel warmer. The wind catches at my long hair and tugs at it insistently, forcing me to collect it in one hand.

I take a step closer to the center of the platform and turn to the little guardrail, leaning against it with my hips. Away from the oppressive Capitol room, I can feel myself beginning to relax. I let go of my hair and allow it to flutter in the wind as I grab the railing with both hands and lean out as far as I can. The train has gotten closer to the distant lights. I still don't know where we are, but I wonder if I can guess. The air smells different here, more like salt and less like motor oil. The houses I can see in the distance appear spread out and flat, unlike the tall, unruly houses of District Six. But there are no other clues, and I'm forced to concede that I have no idea where I am. _That's alright, _I think, breathing in the salty air. _It's a beautiful night, and here I am. If I hadn't been reaped I never would have gotten to see this. _The view is breathtaking, and I can see more stars than I ever saw in District Six. They are like tiny twinkling nails in the blue-black wall that is the sky. I tilt my head upwards and watch them. Despite the fact that we are moving very quickly, they don't appear to move at all.

"I've just never understood why people like the outdoors so much." I jump and turn around quickly, and groan internally as my district partner slinks out from behind the door and leans against it casually. His black hair has been let loose and ripples around his pale face like a glossy curtain. It seems that he normally wears it in a ponytail, as it was held like that all day. To my chagrin, he is clothed in nothing but his boxers. When he catches me looking, he shrugs. "I had no time to change," he says. "When I realized you were out here, I came as soon as I could."

I suddenly feel very vulnerable in just my nightgown. "Why?" I ask shortly. I don't know Taxton, and I don't like him very much, either. He's… well, he's kind of creepy. Before he opened his mouth he seemed alright, but once he started talking at dinner I realized that there was something off about him. And here he is, glaring at the moon and blocking my way back into the sleeper car.

He looks shocked. "So we could _chat! _Obviously." Then he grimaces. "I don't know why you wanted to come out here, though. It's cold."

"I wanted to look," I tell him, clutching the guardrail nervously. "There's another district over there. See?" I point it out to him.

"Very impressive," he says, sounding incredibly unimpressed. "But I'm not all that interested in the view, sorry. It's you I'm interested in."

My throat feels dry. _If he comes at me, I'll go into the other car and call for help, _I decide. "How so?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice calm.

"Well," says Taxton, "I was wondering whether or not you're a nice person."

I wait for him to continue, but it seems like he's done. "A… a nice person?" I ask. "I don't know. Maybe."

He narrows his eyes at me. "You don't seem all that nice," he remarks. "Not to me, anyway. You didn't seem happy to see me."

I'm not sure what to say to that (because I really _wasn't _happy to see him) but it seems that Taxton wasn't expecting a response. "That's kind of a huge disappointment for me," he admits. "I really, _really _like nice people, you know."

"That's..." I can't really think of anything to say.

"Adore them, in fact," he rambles, completely ignoring me. "They're just so much fun to be around. Robyn, for example. Do you know Robyn Whethers?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Shame. He's a dear friend of mine. This bracelet is from him." He raises his wrist and shows me the woven bracelet he's wearing. His pale skin gleams weirdly in the darkness and when he smiles his teeth glint.

"It's… very nice."

"I stole it," says Taxton gleefully. "That poor idiot never even realized it because I was intimidating him at the time." He laughs. He has a short, charming laugh. It doesn't fit his persona at all; in fact, it's rather disturbing to hear that pleasant laugh coming from the decidedly unpleasant person.

"Cool," I say awkwardly, praying that Taxton will decide that I am too boring to be around and will subsequently go away. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like he'll be going any time soon. He yawns and leans against the door, crossing his arms across his chest.

"So, partner," he says. "If you aren't a nice person, what are you? I'm not getting any kind of personality from you except closed-off. What, do you not trust me?"

_You got it, _I think. "I guess I'm just like this," I respond, shrugging slightly. The hem of my nightgown begins to slip past my collarbone and I yank it back into place. Taxton tracks the movement with his pale grey eyes and smiles slightly.

"So you don't trust me," Taxton muses. "That's smart. If you don't trust anyone, you'll last quite a bit longer. And that makes me _so _happy. Of course, it also upsets me. Do you know why?" He grins.

"I haven't the foggiest," I say quietly, squeezing the guardrail.

"I want to win," says Taxton. "I really, _really _don't want to die. I bet you don't want to die either. We're very similar in that respect, Anna."

"I guess so," I say, taking a step away from him.

"It's a shame that you'll have to die in order for me to win," says Taxton, looking almost sad. "And for you to win, I would have to die. But I'm not planning on letting you win. It's nothing personal," he adds hastily. "I don't have anything _against _you, Anna dear. But I'd rather you than me. I'm sure you understand it."

"I don't want you to die, Taxton," I tell him. And it's true. However weird he might be, he doesn't deserve to die. I really doubt that anyone I'll be facing in the arena deserves to die.

To my surprise, he looks almost irritated. "Lying is bad for you," he says, his voice mockingly sing-song. "You shouldn't lie. Didn't your mommy teach you better?"

"No." _My mother died when I was five. I barely remember her. _I'm not interested in telling Taxton this, however.

"Well, she should have," he says. "Come now. You know that you would rather see me die than die yourself. It's perfectly natural! I'm not a _bit _offended."

I try to come up with something to say to him, and can't. He's staring at me with an expectant expression. I work my jaw, realize that I have nothing left to say on the matter, and look away from him. "I'm tired," I say, and feign a yawn. "I'm going to bed now. Good night." Before I can lose my nerve I walk up to the door to the sleeper car and reach around him to open it. "Excuse me," I say pointedly.

For a moment it seems like he won't let me in. Then he moves away from the opening and sweeps into a bow. "Pleasant dreams, Anna. Please think about how right I am. It might help you in the arena." I step into the sleeper car and nudge the door. As it begins to close, Taxton laughs. "Then again," he says, and his voice goes quieter, "it might not."

And then the door clicks shut, leaving me alone with my doubts in the darkness.

* * *

**Lana Ermine, 17**

**District Eight**

Burrowed in blankets, for a moment it feels as though I am home—not home with my grandfather, but home with my parents, when I was still rich enough to afford bedding like this. I can practically hear my mother's voice. _"Come now, Lana darling. Breakfast now, whatever my lovely girl would prefer! Bacon, eggs, toast… Rise and shine, pumpkin!"_

My green eyes open slightly and the vision dissipates. _She's dead, _I remind myself. _Dead and gone. Best not to think about her at all._

I kick the covers away from me. At some point in the night I curled into the fetal position with my arms wrapped around my legs. My back is sore and painful and I gasp slightly as I stretch it out, feeling my vertebrae snapping and popping. My auburn hair is now messy and hangs limply around my face. Dazed, I stumble out of bed. The train car is cheerful and filled with sunlight that leaks in from the small window, but the bright colors don't make me feel any better. _This train is taking me to the Capitol, _I think. _I can't forget that._

After my parents died and I moved in with Grandfather, I had to take baths in a large wooden tub. The train, however, is fitted with a shower, and so I strip off my nightclothes and walk into the bathroom. I pause for a moment to glance at myself in the mirror. I look angry (although I don't feel particularly angry.) My skin is paler than ever in the white bathroom, which brings out the freckles scattered across the bridge of my nose. I have an hourglass figure (rather nice, I'm lucky in that respect), and I have been fed just enough that I am slim but not skinny. I am no beauty queen, but I'm not unattractive either.

I step into the shower and study the buttons, frowning slightly. They have little pictures on them to signify what they will do to me, but most of these pictures mean nothing to me. _It's fascinating, _I think, glaring at the buttons. _Such a complicated technology for something so simple. _I end up pressing three buttons at random and soon find myself covered in soap and shampoo that smells like lemons. _That could have gone worse, _I decide, rinsing off the suds in water at such perfect temperature that I'd love to spend all morning in the shower.

However tempting that sounds, I finally turn off the water and get out of the shower. The towel is as soft as the ones I used to have, and I'm feeling content by the time I'm dry. I step back into my room and cross over to my closet. The bracelet my grandfather gave me is lying on the dresser, and I decide to leave it. I was told that the bracelet will be collected for the token review board to examine. _I can't see how a bracelet would pose any threat, so I'm sure it will pass examination._

_ I wonder if my parents would have gotten me dresses like this if they'd survived until now, _I think, pulling on the skirt of a deep purple number. The dresses are too fancy for my new tastes, however, and I eventually manage to find a somewhat frilly turquoise blouse and unfortunately tight-fitting pants that will have to serve.

Now that I'm dressed, I am ready to face the day. I open the door to my room and step into the corridor. No one is there to greet me, and I make my way to the dining car in solitude. Both my mentor, Mason Quaite, and my escort, Celestine Barrowdun, are seated at the table. Both of them seem exhausted and are currently drinking what looks and smells like coffee. I've never had it before; coffee is extremely expensive and even my parents couldn't afford it very often.

"Hello, Lana," says Mason when he catches sight of me. He is still a young man; he's thirty, I believe, but looks even younger. There's something of an ethereal quality to Mason. Looking at him, it's hard to believe that he won the 110th Hunger Games.

Celestine glances up and mumbles something unintelligible before returning to her mug. It appears that she isn't a morning person. _She's lazy, _I reflect. _She was too lazy to give me and Stitchell advice yesterday, and she can barely function early in the morning. _That isn't good. The escorts have an integral role in keeping their tributes alive.

"You hungry?" Mason asks. "Go over to that panel—over there, on the wall—and read something from the menu, whatever you want." He smiles tiredly.

Intrigued, I walk over to the panel. There is a small speaker next to it, along with an extensive menu of breakfast options. "Interesting," I say aloud. "This speaker must connect to an automated vending machine of breakfast foods. I make a choice and it places that choice in the panel." I rap on the panel with my knuckles. "I suppose the train attendants must restock it?"

I turn to my mentor and escort. Mason shrugs. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I don't really know how it works. Celestine, do you have any idea?"

She looks at me blearily. "Uhh… sure thing, Lana. You got it…!" She punches the air briefly before returning to her coffee.

_She's no help. I'll have to assume that I'm right about this. _It really is very interesting, the technology the Capitol employs for such simple things. _If the people in the districts could have even a fraction of what the Capitolians do, everyone would be living like kings._

"Blueberry pancakes," I say into the speaker, "and coffee." After a moment, there is a cheerful ding and the panel slides upwards to reveal my order. I grab the plate and the mug and slide into an empty chair next to Celestine. I pick up a fork and knife and cut off a piece of pancake. It tastes incredible.

"Celestine?" asks Mason. "Would you wake up Stitchell? I have some things I'd like to discuss with my tributes." Mason has the unfortunate luck of being District Eight's only Victor; as such, Stitchell and I share him as a mentor. Celestine nearly drops her mug in shock, and looks extremely depressed about having to get out of her chair.

"_Fine," _she groans at last, dramatically rising to her feet. She exits the car slowly, with hunched shoulders. Mason watches her go, and sighs as soon as the door clicks shut behind her.

"She doesn't actually like working," he tells me. "She says she does it because she only has to work about two weeks total per year."

"That isn't good for me," I respond, taking a sip of coffee and enjoying the bitter flavor. "It would be better to have an escort that cares about the job."

Mason blinks. "It really depends on the escort," he says. "Piston Quartzite from District One cares about the job, but not about the tributes. Celestine does care, at the least. When our tributes… die… she is very emotional."

I frown slightly, but before I can reply Celestine returns with a tired-looking Stitchell in tow. When he sees me, his face lights up and he takes Celestine's seat so he can sit next to me. She grimaces good-naturedly and moves to sit next to Mason instead.

"Hi, Lana," he says happily. An unexpected feeling of warmth blossoms in my chest. Stitchell is the first person my age that's treated me like a human being in a long time.

"Hi, Stitchell," I respond.

Mason smiles slightly. "Good morning, Stitchell," he says. "Did you sleep well?"

Stitchell shakes his head solemnly. "I had nightmares," he confides. "I dreamed about the Hunger Games and that Woofus was eating me, and also Lacey Tyrell was there and she was _laughing." _He shivers. "It was really scary."

"I'm sorry about that," says Mason. "I hope you're feeling better now."

Stitchell beams. "I am! I'm with Lana now so it's okay. She was in the dream and she chased Woofus and Lacey away and then we both won the Hunger Games, so everything was okay after all!"

Mason is fighting to keep his smile in place. I am fighting to keep from putting my head in my hands. Every time Stitchell says something, I feel a little bit worse. _How can they send someone like this to the Games? It's depraved._

"You and Lana are friends?" Mason asks, looking thoughtful.

"Yes! I think so." Stitchell turns to look at me, suddenly uncertain. "We're friends, right, Lana? I mean, _I _think we're friends because you're nice to me and you also saved me in the dream, and plus we're district partners and all so we kind of have to like each other right?"

That warm feeling dances in the pit of my belly again. I can't remember the last time anyone wanted to be my friend. I don't think I was particularly nice or friendly to Stitchell yesterday, but apparently he thinks differently. Are we friends? Can I trust him? _Well, that's a stupid question, _I think. Ordinarily I have a lot of trouble trusting people I don't know, but Stitchell is different. I don't think he has a sneaky or devious bone in his body.

"Yes," I say, without thinking. Stitchell's resulting smile is so wide that I find myself smiling too, if only for an instant.

Mason looks happy as well. "Are you considering an alliance?" he asks, directing the question towards me. Stitchell, who doesn't know what he means by this, immediately starts questioning him as to what an alliance is. The two of them discuss it while I mull it over.

When I was reaped, I wasn't planning on allying at all. _Allies get you killed, I_ thought. _They always end up betraying each other. _But I can't see Stitchell betraying me. In fact, if there were a betrayal in our alliance… I would be the instigator.

_If I had to, I could kill him. _It's a callous thought that leaves me feeling cold, but there it is. _And he might be a burden, but if he does what I tell him to do when I tell him to do it, this could work for a time. _There aren't actually many downsides to this. I don't think Stitchell is capable of betraying me, and he might be able to work with me if I show him how.

"Lana?" Mason prompts.

My throat feels dry. "Yes…" I work out, and immediately wonder if I've made a mistake. _No. No, I'm doing the right thing. This is a good idea._

Stitchell wriggles in excitement. "Really? Oh, really? This is great! We're gonna be together for the _whole Games, _Lana! And I'll be the best ally ever and I won't screw up even a _little _bit!"

I swallow. "I'm sure you won't," I manage vaguely, and I pray that Stitchell is right.


	7. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Anyone else pumped about the end of _Breaking Bad? _I know I am!**

**(That doesn't have anything to do with anything. Just putting that out there.)**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

_Chariot Rides_

* * *

**Colton "Colt" Gray, 13**

**District Ten**

My nose is bleeding again. Tiredly, I reach up and rub the blood off my upper lip with the back of my hand. The pain is alright; I've gotten used to the dull throbbing that doesn't go away. The pain in my ribs is worse. Breathing is a difficulty. Ordinarily I'd consider these kinds of wounds worth it (because at least I showed Grin that I wasn't kidding around) but now that I have less than a week before the Games, they are hardly superficial.

The elevator is unpleasantly cool, and I wrap my arms around my shoulders and then wince at the pain in my chest. My mentor pressed the basement button for me when he put me in the elevator. Apparently, I need to go to the basement because my bloody nose needs to be treated before I get into costume.

_Before I get into costume. _I grit my teeth and clench my fists. There's no way anyone will be able to wrestle me into a stupid cow costume or whatever it is they've come up with. They'll have to pin me down, and that won't stop me from taking it off later. _I don't care what they do to me. I'm not playing their games._

The elevator dings pleasantly and the doors slide open. I step into the corridor and glance around myself, feeling a little lost. More blood trickles from my nose, and I grimace. _Is that ever going to stop bleeding? I'm going to die if this keeps up. _It stopped for a while on the train, but the cold elevator made it start again, badly.

If possible, the basement is even colder than the elevator was. I rub my shoulders furiously and do my best to ignore the pain. There is the sudden soft sound of a person clearing their throat, coming from directly behind me. I whirl around with a glare, expecting to see a bubbly Capitolian nurse or doctor. Maybe even a regular technician whose job is simply to get the blood off my shirt.

Therefore, I am surprised by the man standing behind me. He is bald, with crooked glasses and an even more crooked smile. He is clad in a white lab coat, and gloves made of some kind of clear plastic cover his large hands. "Hello, Colton," he says. "My name is Buteo Morestes, and I'm going to be your doctor this evening." Then he grins, and his eyes glint in a crazy sort of way.

"I got that," I say nervously, considering whether or not I should run away from him. He's giving off a weird vibe, and I don't want him anywhere near my injuries.

"Come, Colton," says Buteo. "Time's a-wasting!" He turns around and indicates that I should follow him. _Alright, _I decide, _I'll go. But only because I need my face fixed before the Games. _

Sullenly, I follow the doctor through a maze of corridors. _If I'd run off I'd be really lost by now. _After a few minutes of walking, Buteo comes to a stop. "Here we are!" he announces, ushering me into a small white room. He nods towards the table in the center. _I don't think so, _I decide, opting to sit on the table instead of lying down like I was obviously meant to. Buteo raises an eyebrow at my choice, but doesn't remark on it.

"Now," he says, while rummaging through a cabinet. "You have a broken nose, correct?"

"How should I know? I'm not the doctor."

He stops what he's doing to give me a look. "You know, it can be dangerous to antagonize a doctor. Especially the doctor who's supposed to be patching you up in the interest of fairness in a fight to the death."

I cross my arms over my chest and immediately regret the action as stabbing pains hit me in the sides. Despite myself, I suck in air between my teeth and hiss. Buteo notices and glances at my chest. "And you have some sort of rib injury as well. Tsk, tsk."

"I'm just going to get killed in a week anyway," I snarl, "so what difference does it make if I hurt my ribs? Just do your job."

He lets out a short, barking laugh. "Feisty, aren't you? I like that in a person." He removes a slim instrument from the cabinet and comes towards me. When he presses a button on the side of the instrument, it lets out an electric hum and begins to emit a dark blue light.

"What is that?" I ask, resolving not to let it near me if I don't like his answer.

"It allows me to see an image of your bones and not your skin," says Buteo. "It can't hurt you." Now he sounds condescending.

"Well, if it does you can expect payback," I grumble, but allow Buteo to come closer. He holds the instrument near my nose and looks through it; then he nods.

"Ah," he says. "This is a bad break. How sad for you."

"Just get on with it."

"Remember what I told you about antagonizing doctors!" he sings. "Take off your shirt."

"W-what?! No!" I clutch the hem of my t-shirt, suddenly afraid that he'll attempt to rip it off me.

Buteo rolls his eyes. "The device is nowhere near as powerful when clothing is in the way. I'm not interested in your scrawny chest, Colton. I am happily married." His eyes mist over. "Ah, Aquila. The love of my life."

I don't want to hear about this freak's love life. Hurriedly, I strip off the shirt and then grimace as the cold hits me. Buteo ignores my obvious discomfort and peers through the device. "This time you're lucky," he tells me. "Just some bruising. I'll send some morphling pills to your mentor; they should have the bruising healed up by the Games. Now, I want you to lie down on that table with your arms at your sides. Put your shirt back on if you wish."

I pull the shirt back on and breathe deeply in order to mute the pain. "What are you gonna to me?" I ask, and remain in a seated position.

Buteo sighs. "I am going to fix your nose. As much as I'd like to, I'm not planning on cutting your brain out of your head. Now, are you going to continue being juvenile, or will you go ahead and lie down so we can get this over with?"

"_As much as you'd like to!? _You _want _to cut out my brain?"

"Doubtless I could make better use of it than you," says Buteo dourly. "I won't say this again. _Lie. Down."_

"_No," _I growl, narrowing my eyes.

"Fine," he says, reaching for what looks like a remote control lying on the counter. He picks it up and brings it to his lips. "Restrain difficult patient."

The table begins to vibrate and lets out several beeps. Suddenly suspicious, I move to jump down and something cold snakes around my wrist. I glance down, outraged, at the metal cuff that pins me to the table. I attempt to wrench my arm free and inadvertently rest my other hand against the table. Before I have time to pull away, it is cuffed as well.

Apparently the stupid table can _move, _because the headrest inclines rapidly, so quickly that I smack into it. In seconds, my neck and chest have been secured, and the table falls back into a reclining position. Nonchalantly, and with a big stupid smile on his face, Buteo strolls over to me, narrowly avoiding my furious kicking, and slides my legs onto the table. Immediately, cuffs snap shut around my knees and ankles.

I'm so furious that I'm almost in tears. "Let me out!" I rage, straining violently against my restraints. "_Let me out!"_

"Perhaps if you'd done as I asked this wouldn't have happened," says Buteo. "You only have yourself to blame." He smirks.

"You creepy freak! Let me out or I'll pound you!"

"_Please _stop talking," says Buteo tiredly. "I'll gag you if I have to. This table is well-equipped to deal with people like you."

"You'll have to gag me, then—"

"Fine." He doesn't even look bothered. "Gag difficult patient," he tells the remote control. I clamp my mouth shut immediately, hoping to avoid the gagging, but a metal band rises on both sides of my face, pressing against my lips so hard that I'm forced to open them. As soon as I do, the metal moves inside my mouth, compressing my tongue. It tastes like sterile iron. I press against my restraints again, furiously, trying to make any sort of sound around the metal in my mouth. I can manage a thin whine, but nothing more.

"_Much _better," announces Buteo. He picks up a tray of instruments and moves towards me. Fear makes my stomach twist, but I refuse to show Buteo how nervous I am. I narrow my eyes at him and ball my hands into fists.

He ignores me, picking up a syringe and tapping the plunger gently. "This is called chlorophine," he says, when he catches me looking. "One shot of this and you'll be so loopy that you won't remember your mother's name. This should be more than enough to keep you drugged and happy during the chariot parade; wouldn't want you embarrassing yourself in front of all of Panem, after all! As long as your partner keeps you from falling out of the chariot, you'll be lucid enough to appear awake but totally helpless in all other respects. It will also prevent you from feeling much pain while I fix your nose."

I begin to hyperventilate. _Get it away from me! _I protest silently. _You can't do this! Get away!_

"Pleasant dreams, Colton," says Buteo, and he presses the needle into my forearm. There is a prick of pain as he inserts the needle and the resulting pain as he pulls it out. For a moment, I feel no different. _Hah! I've beaten your stupid… needle…_

And then, quite suddenly, everything dissolves into a tunnel of color and sound.

* * *

**Pandora, 14**

**District Seven**

"It's a good thing you aren't hairy," Gremellus remarks, as he lathers a soapy sort of cream onto my left leg. "If you were hairy, we'd have to wax you." Then he grins, as though the thought amuses him.

_I wish you'd go away, _I think numbly. I'm feeling very exposed right now; my robe is currently hanging on the back of a chair on the other side of the room, leaving me completely naked in front of three Capitolian strangers. My arms are crossed in front of my chest but there's not really anything else I can do to hide myself. It isn't as if I'm ashamed of my body, but I hate the idea of these people looking at it.

"You're a bit less savage than _some _of the people from your district," remarks Tuditana. "We've been lucky for a while, I suppose. The girl from last year was decent enough. But the year _before _that…" She shudders delicately. "I don't even want to _think _about it."

I really can't stand Tuditana. It is clear that she thinks she's so much better than the people from my district, and she obviously considers herself better than the other members of my prep team as well. She wants to be a stylist someday, as she's mentioned several times now.

"Oh, stop being such a _bitch!" _sings Vara. "District Seven is hardly savage! We could've had District _Twelve!" _ She pats my black hair comfortingly. "Don't even _worry, _Pandy. Can I call you Pandy?"

"I'd rather you didn't…"

"Oh well! Anyway, Pandy, I'm going to take good care of you even if Tuditana doesn't want to. Because I'm a good person!"

_Are you? _I think. _You're going to watch me fight to the death on live television, and you don't seem a bit concerned. I don't think you're a good person at all. _I don't say it out loud, though. If I alienate my prep team too much, they might just shove me out there half-naked and half-shaved. I don't see my potential sponsors being too happy about that.

"I'm done with her left leg," says Gremellus, picking up a towel and wiping away the cream.

"Start working on her skin, then," says Tuditana. "Vara, have you finished with her hair yet?"

"Almost! I'm just working on the finishing touches." She runs her multi-colored fingers through my black hair, pulling it away from my face.

"When you're done, do her nails," says Tuditana. "I'll do the makeup." She rolls her eyes dramatically, as though it is such a difficult job that she seriously doubts her chances of success but will battle through anyway. I narrow my eyes at her. _I really don't like you._

Tuditana notices my expression. "Stop making that face, or I'll muck it up," she says warningly. I manage to relax my facial muscles, although my intense dislike has gone nowhere. After a moment of scrutiny, Tuditana grabs a handful of powders, creams and brushes and dumps them onto the counter beside her.

Gremellus has begun to rub a sweet-smelling cream into my feet. He works his way upwards, coating every inch of skin with it. I'd be more embarrassed if he didn't seem so bored by the whole thing. He seemed happier with a razor in his hand. I shiver. _He's creepy. They're all creepy._

Vara, for example, has a _tail. _I love animals, but animal/human hybrids are incredibly disturbing. And I am afraid that the blue-scaled tail was originally attached to some kind of animal. The idea disgusts me. _How could someone do that to an innocent creature in the name of fashion? _That isn't the only disturbing thing about Vara, though. Her entire body is covered in blue scales to match her tail, and she has gills on the side of her neck, and bulging eyes. Her fingers (and probably toes as well) are webbed, and a translucent frill starts at her bald scalp and runs along her spine all the way to the small of her back. _She looks like a fish, _I think, and hope that an actual fish didn't have to die in order for her to look like one.

"I'm done with your hair," Vara says into my ear, making me jump. "I'll get to work on your nails now!" I reach up to feel at what she's done, and she shrieks and bats my hand away. "No, no, _no!" _she exclaims. "Here, you can look in the mirror but _no touching." _She hands me a small mirror and angles it towards my forehead.

My black hair has been pulled into two tight buns on either side of my scalp, which accentuates the sharp angle of my chin and the tanned cast of my face. _This looks dumb, _I think, but I don't want to know what will happen if I voice this thought aloud.

"Do you like it?" asks Vara anxiously.

"I guess," I exclaim. She looks a bit put-out by my lack of enthusiasm and snatches the mirror away from me, dropping it alongside Tuditana's creams and powders.

"I'll do your nails," she says brusquely, grabbing my hand. As she begins coating my nails with some kind of clear polish, Tuditana grabs a towel and pours a foul-smelling liquid on it. She grabs my chin, her fingernails digging into my skin, and begins to scrub at my face. It hurts, but I won't let her hear me complaining or crying out.

There's so much going on at once that I hardly know what to focus on. Gremellus is still scrubbing away at my skin, Vara is putting more polish on my nails, and Tuditana has stopped furiously wiping my face and is now applying some sort of thick liquid to my skin. I try to relax and let them do their jobs, but I am extremely curious as to what, exactly, they are doing to me. _Still, I can't look that bad, _I rationalize. _And if I do, what difference does it make? I probably won't get any sponsors anyway._

They all finish up around the same time. Gremellus tosses me my robe and I slip into it, intensely relieved. "Here," says Vara, passing me the mirror again. I examine what Tuditana has done to my face. There is dark makeup around my blue eyes that tapers away towards the sides of my face, and my lips are now a much darker red. My skin seems paler than usual.

"You look passable," sniffs Tuditana. "It's unfortunate that I never get to practice my talents on someone of _value, _but you'll do, I suppose." She glances at the other members of my prep team. "Come. Nero will want to get a look at her."

The three members of my prep team file out of the room. I pull my legs in towards my chest, feeling very uncomfortable. _This is terrible, _I think miserably. _These people are certifiably insane. They abuse animals for their stupid fashion_, _and they want to watch me die for their stupid entertainment. I hate this. I hate them._

The door opens again, and I immediately glance up. The man who I assume is Nero steps into the room and nods at me. His silvery hair gleams in the light; it is beautiful and thick, and longer than mine.

"You must be Pandora," says Nero. "I am Nero. I am your stylist."

"Hello," I reply, not taking my eyes away from his.

"You will stand up and remove your robe," he commands, turning away from me. There is a covered dress on a rack in the corner, and he marches towards it and begins to unzip it. Hastily, I get to my feet and take off the robe, letting it drop to the floor. It puddles around my feet and I kick it away.

Nero moves to stand behind me. "Hold your arms vertically," he says, and I lift them above my head. He pulls the dress over my shoulders, and I marvel at the odd texture; smooth, but slightly scratchy. It doesn't feel like fabric at all. It feels… rather like paper.

Nero pulls the dress down towards my knees, and ruffles the skirt a bit. There is a full-length mirror propped up against the wall, and I look at myself in it. I am taken aback at how elegant I look. The dress is indeed made of paper; white paper that is cut crisply and looks quite nice. The dress has no sleeves but the bodice is fairly modest, easily covering my chest. The skirt has three layers and extends outwards in a circle around my knees. While I gaze at myself silently, Nero kneels and wrestles my feet into black high-heeled shoes. Then he stands up and looks at me as well. "This is good," he decides finally. "Now, you are not to play with the dress or lean up against anything. This is some of my best work and I will not have it ruined by a district girl. Do you understand?"

The muted feelings of warmth and happiness vanish. I look at him with a blank expression. "I understand," I say darkly.

No matter how well they treat me, they always show their true colors eventually. If I can only remember that, I'll have a chance at surviving. And, in the end, a chance is all I need.

* * *

**Asher Krytes, 16**

**District Five**

I fiddle with the collar of my suit and try to avoid looking at Media. Her hair is _so weird—_it's made out of snakes, and I find that to be the creepiest thing. If Ashia were here, she'd probably try to touch them or something. Ashia is freaky like that.

This whole situation is weird. I'm standing in an elevator with a barely-dressed Capitolian snake lady. When I glance at myself in the mirrored walls, I can't even tell that it's me. Where I would normally be wearing a plain t-shirt and shorts, I'm wearing a crisp white suit with a huge yellow lightning bolt on the front and the back. I think it looks kind of ridiculous and told Media so, but she only laughed and said that I was from a lame district and therefore it wasn't her fault that I had a lame costume. I couldn't exactly argue with that logic.

In addition to the suit, I have on a pair of golden sunglasses that hopefully make me look cooler than I really am, and glittering golden running shoes, which I rather like. I asked Media if I could keep them, but she said no. That's probably a good thing; I'm not the world's best runner. In fact, I'm probably the world's _worst _runner.

Something is touching my cheek. I glance down to see a green head nuzzling at my skin. The snake's tongue flicks in and out, and its mouth begins to open. I shriek, hurling myself to the other side of the elevator. "Get it away get it away get it away GET IT AWAY _GET IT AWAY—"_

_ "Alright! _Geez, what's the matter with you?" Media swats at the snake that is still extended in my direction, and it hisses once before settling down and coiling around her neck instead. I relax, slumping against the far wall of the elevator. My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel nauseous.

"I _hate _your snake hair," I babble. "Snakes are the worst. They're dry when they look slimy, and that's weird, and plus they have evil poison fangs and creepy tongues. They could kill you in a _heartbeat. _Did you know that nine out of every ten deaths is snake-related? It's true. Snakes are natural-born killers and they _hate humans. _Why would you have a whole bunch of them on your head?!"

"These aren't real snakes," says Media, making a face. "They're mutts."

"That's _worse!"_

"Nuh-uh." The elevator dings and the doors slide open. "And my hair is lovely, thank you very much."

I swallow harshly and inch out of the elevator. "Your hair is terrifying. Uh, no offense."

She gives me a look. "Uh, I'm offended."

I'm saved having to respond by Media shoving me forward, her talon-like nails poking me in the back. "Walk," she says. "The stables are that way, and if you're late Camillus will be, like, _annoying _about it."

There's really only one direction to go. The corridor ends in a large set of double doors, beyond which I can hear the quiet murmur of voices. Suddenly nervous, I wipe my sweaty palms off on my white suit and adjust my golden sunglasses. _I look cool, right? Cool… and… confident… Oh, who am I kidding? Once a dork, always a dork. Even with epic sunglasses._

We reach the double doors, and Media practically punts me through them. I smack into the doors with my face and stumble a little before glancing up wildly, convinced that every other tribute in the room will be pointing and laughing. However, after a few turned heads, nobody starts howling with laughter, so I'm probably alright.

Impatiently, Media drags me over to the chariot for District Five. It is golden to match my outfit, and the two horses that will drag me and Ashia all around City Circle are a sort of buttery gold color as well. Speaking of Ashia, she is already in the chariot, leaning on her arm and looking bored. When she catches sight of me, her face lights up and she smiles. "Ashy! _Finally!"_

"Indeed," sniffs the man from behind her. He has bright pink hair and brown skin, and an expression that bodes ill for Media. _This must be Camillus, _I think. "What took you so long?" he snaps. "Admiring yourself in the mirror?"

"Uh, _no," _says Media. "I was making Asher look _nice. _So why don't you shut your face?"

"I think the both of you should possibly calm down—" I interject.

Media turns to look at me. "Get in the chariot and shut up."

I do.

Once I'm standing next to Ashia, she smiles at me and looks me over. "Nice suit. Loving the electric thing you've got going." Her dress is more of a tunic than a dress, and it's kind of awkwardly short, even with the white tights she's wearing. As with me, a lightning bolt blazes down the front and the back of her outfit, and she has the same sparkling golden shoes and sunglasses that I do. Her strawberry-blonde hair, which is normally pulled back into a braid, has been let loose and ripples down to her shoulders.

"Thank you. You look nice too. Even if your dress looks more like a shirt than a dress and is kind of making me uncomfortable."

She winks. Her eyes look milky from behind her glasses. "I live to make people uncomfortable, Ashy baby."

"Really? That seems like a kind of evil pastime. Are you a villain? If you are, I'm not sure if I should be associating with you."

"Trust me. Even if I am a villain, I'm a lot more interesting than everybody else here." She waves her hand dismissively. "Look at District Eight, for example." I do, and feel a pang of sympathy for the two tributes in their chariot. It appears that they are not in costume and are just wearing regular clothing. "I think their stylist gave them normal clothing because they're from District Eight and all, and District Eight makes clothes. And they're just taking it. Poor dears."

"Yeah," I agree. "Those two are dead. I mean it. I guess the guy's kinda tall and all, but no one will sponsor them if they look so bad in the opening ceremonies."

"Shame," Ashia yawns. "The guy's kinda cute. In a puppy dog way. Like you."

I choke on air. "W-what?!"

She smiles. "I'm pretty sure you heard me, Ashy."

"Hey, you two!" Media snaps, and we both turn to look at her. "Stop flirting and listen."

"I wasn't flirting…" I whimper, but no one responds.

"Are you two crazy kids planning on an alliance or not?" asks Camillus. "This is a big deal, kiddies, so don't muck it up!"

Ashia and I glance at each other. I'm not sure what to say; I haven't been thinking about allies, really. I guess if it came down to it I'd be willing to be Ashia's ally (because I need _somebody _to be there for me in the arena, right?) but I don't know how she feels about the whole thing.

Ashia shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe." She puts her hands on her hips. "How about this, Ashy? If neither of us have an alliance by the end of the third training day, we'll stick it together. That sound good to you?"

Camillus and Media are looking at me judgmentally, so I don't have time to think about my answer. "Sure," I blurt.

"Well, there you have it," says Ashia.

"_Maybe _is not actually that helpful, sweetheart," says Camillus. "If you don't know for sure, don't act too friendly. You'll look weak and the weaklings _always _die first."

"Exactly!" agrees Media. "My tributes always die and it's really annoying. Could you try not to?"

"I can't make any promises," I stammer, "but I'll definitely try." I will, too. But what are the chances that an awkward gangly teenage boy from District Five will win? I doubt they're particularly high. But if I say that out loud Ashia will never want to ally with me, and even my stylist will think I'm a chump, so I don't say anything. Better to die a mute than a coward. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere.

* * *

**Terance Ryiane, 13**

**District Twelve**

Both mine and Flywheel's stylists have gone, and now we have been left on the chariot as we wait for the parade to begin. Flywheel keeps on making a face as she pats her outfit uncertainly. We are both dressed as lumps of coal and have been wrestled into unwieldy suits made out of cardboard that press in all the wrong places. Flywheel has stripes of black paint underneath her narrow green eyes, and my cheeks have been sprinkled with coal dust for authenticity.

Flywheel stops making faces at her outfit and smiles at me instead. "How are you feeling, Terance?" she asks brightly.

I shrug. "Nervous," I admit quietly. "All the people…" I trail off and bite my lip.

Immediately, she finds my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "Don't be nervous," she says. "They can't do anything to you. The worst they'll do is yell."

"I know," I explain helplessly. "I just don't want all those people to be looking at me. It's uncomfortable."

"It is," Flywheel agrees. "I'll tell you what. Don't look at them. Just look down, at the horses maybe, and try to drown out the crowd. I can't promise that it'll work, but maybe if you aren't looking at them it'll be less scary." She stops squeezing my hand and pats me on the shoulder instead. "Don't worry. I'll be right here."

"Thank you," I whisper. Indeed, Flywheel has been "right here" since the very beginning. She comforted me on the train when I was crying, and has been all-around helpful ever since. She mentioned something about an alliance already, but she said she'd tell me more on the first training day. I think she has a plan or something. I hope so, anyway. She seems like she knows what she's doing.

"Hey," says Flywheel. "I think the parade's starting. Now would be a good time to concentrate on the horses."

I follow her advice and stare at the broad black back of the horse directly in front of me. Our chariot remains unmoving; because we're from District Twelve, we are last in every activity the pre-Games have to offer. _And we're last in the Games a lot too, dead last. _I swallow hard and clutch the chariot so tightly that my hands turn white.

After a few moments in which we remain unmoving, I peek up at the remaining chariots. Districts One through Five have already exited the stable, which leaves seven chariots left. The costumes of the tributes from District Nine catch my eye, and I wince in sympathy. Both tributes have been wrapped in what look to be real fronds of wheat, but the wheat is brittle and keeps on breaking. Both of them have large patches of skin showing; the girl has her hand across her chest and a terrific scowl on her face. _They look about as bad as Flywheel and me._

Nerves grip me again, and I go back to looking at the horses. After a few moments, one of them lets out a whinny and they both trot forward. I bite my lip furiously until Flywheel slides her hand over my own. "Relax," she says soothingly. "Take deep breaths and try not to think too hard. I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Somehow our fingers intertwine, and I immediately feel safer. I want to respond to Flywheel, but I'm so nervous that I can't get the words out. She bumps shoulders with me affectionately and doesn't seem at all put out by my inability to speak. I am relieved.

"We're almost out," she tells me. A moment later, and the distant roar of the Capitol becomes a very close and very personal sound. "We're out," she murmurs, although she didn't have to. I know. The flickering lights in my peripheral vision, the wild screaming, and the rumbling of the chariot over cobblestones all alerted me to the fact that we are now in the open.

I have to remain strong or the Capitolians will never sponsor me. Flywheel continues squeezing my hand, and I take deep breaths. I can hear people in the crowd cheering out the names of their favorites; I don't hear my name at all and only once do I hear someone yelling "Flywheel!" I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my chest. _No one's looking at me. I'm not the focus. _The ugly costume that my stylist gave me is actually turning out to be helpful!

I feel well enough to glance up. I immediately regret the decision as thousands of faces peer back at me. There is a surge in cheering once I've looked up; apparently some of the Capitolians were hurt that I didn't want to look at them. Unfortunately, the cheering only embarrasses me, and I look down again.

"You're doing great!" Flywheel shouts into my ear. "We're almost there, just a couple more blocks!" This knowledge makes me feel better, and once more I risk a glance at the crowds. There are screens set up on both sides of the road that seem to be displaying shots of the chariots. Currently, none of the screens feature District Twelve. The one closest to us displays an image of the District One tributes. Both of them look incredible. The girl is wearing a dress with a bodice made of diamond and a silvery skirt to match. Silver gloves cover her hands and elegant jewelry drips from her throat and ears. The boy is wearing a sort of decorative armor, with a diamond breastplate to match the girl. He holds a sword in his hand and keeps on thrusting it into the air.

How can Flywheel and I hope to compete against District One and their diamonds? I imagine that boy plunging his sword into my stomach, and all courage deserts me. I clutch Flywheel's hand as though it is a lifeline, and I don't let go.

I am surprised when our chariot jerks to a halt. I glance up at Flywheel with a question in my eyes. "We've reached the President's Mansion," she explains. "He's going to make a speech now, so everyone has to be quiet." Even as she says it, the cheering crowd is reduced to a dull murmur. Relief spreads through me, although I can still feel the eyes of a hundred people on me.

The President's speech is very standard. He wishes the Capitolians a happy Hunger Games and remarks on how daring we twenty-four seem, expressing hope that we will create the best Hunger Games ever. I do my best to block out his words. When Flywheel notices how I have my eyes squeezed shut, she hums quietly, and that helps.

By the time President Pericles ends the speech with the ever-popular "may the odds be ever in your favor!" I'm a nervous wreck. Flywheel is forced to sling an arm around my shoulders in order to keep me standing. The crowd immediately begins roaring again, and I can feel the beginnings of a headache festering in my brain.

The chariots begin trundling back towards the stables. Every step the horses take is a step closer to the relative safety of the interior of the Remake Center, and so I feel a little better with every passing moment. But I am still unable to relax fully until our chariot finally pulls into the stables and the doors swing closed behind it.

Flywheel pats my shoulder and pulls me in for an impromptu hug. "I think that went very well," she says.

"Yeah," I agree, as the headache slowly worsens.

* * *

**Pullus Evander, 6**

**Capitolian**

_I wish I could've seen the chariots, _I think, crossing my arms over my chest. _All my friends got to go the parade but me. It's not fair!_

Mommy said that because of Ginger's head I'm not allowed to leave the President's Mansion, but I know that if Ginger were still alive she'd want me to go to the parade with everybody else. Ginger was really great like that and I know she wouldn't want to ruin my fun because of her head and all.

President Pericles got to go. So did Uncle Tails. Even Mr. Buteo was there, but Mrs. Aquila said that he was only there so he could fix up somebody named Colton. I don't know who Colton is or why he needs fixing, but it still isn't fair that Mr. Buteo got to go and I didn't.

I'm sitting in the parlor with Mommy and Mrs. Aquila and the angry Avox named Kelwin. Merula isn't here because she decided to go to the Peacekeeper Recruitment Center. Uncle Tails isn't happy about that but I am. Now Merula can be like Ginger! I hope we don't get Merula's head in a box, though. I'm still having bad dreams about that box.

Mommy is talking to Mrs. Aquila so I have to watch the television with the angry Avox. He always looks upset. Merula told me his name is Kelwin and his Master is probably crazy, which is why he's always mad. Also, he doesn't like serving dinner. I wouldn't like serving dinner if I were him, so I understand.

I tug on his sleeve, and he blinks, startled. "Hey," I whisper. "Which one of the chariots is your favorite?" They're showing the recaps now, because the parade is over. _And I missed it!_

He shrugs, and then points to the District One chariot. "I like that one too!" I agree. "Very sparkly." Kelwin rolls his eyes, but then he nods when Mommy gives him a look.

"Hello, ladies, Pullus." I turn around to see President Pericles, Uncle Tails, and Mr. Buteo standing in the doorway. President Pericles is smiling but he looks tired. "Did I do well?"

Mommy goes over to talk to him and Kelwin gets up and leaves the room, so I'm all alone again. Bored, I look away from the television and watch Mr. Buteo and Mrs. Aquila. They are speaking to each other quietly. As they talk, something falls out of Mr. Buteo's pocket. He doesn't notice, and after a moment the two of them leave the room.

I hurry over to the fallen thing; then I make a face. It's a shot! Mr. Buteo is a doctor so it makes sense that he would have one. But he dropped it and didn't notice! I'd better go after him and give it back.

I hurry out of the parlor and spot Mr. Buteo and Mrs. Aquila getting into the elevator at the end of the corridor. The down arrow lights up. Why are they going downstairs? The only thing in the basement is cleaning supplies for the Avoxes.

What if they're doing something secret? I slip the shot into my pocket and bolt for the stairs. Maybe they'll let me in on the secret too! That would be awesome!

I reach the stairs and hurry as fast as my legs can carry me. My wings keep on smacking against the walls and that kind of hurts, but I'm going too fast to stop. I reach the door and ever so slowly open it, peeking through the crack.

There they are! Mrs. Aquila opens a door—hang on, that's a closet! So they _are _doing a secret thing! _This is so exciting! _I creep out of the stairwell and hurry towards them; they're practically in the closet so they don't notice.

The closet door is almost closed so I block it with my shoe and peer inside. Mr. Buteo is shifting aside a poster on the wall, and it looks like there's a keypad under there. He punches in some numbers, and the wall in front of him _opens up to reveal a door. _I'm amazed; this is the coolest thing I've ever seen!

They go through the door and it starts to close. I wait until it's nearly shut before bolting into the closet and slipping through the gap. Then I stop dead. _What is this place?_

I'm in a really big room with white tiles all over the place. There are fancy gadgets and tables and things, but what's really cool are the big tanks all along the wall. There are _people _in those tanks! Suddenly I'm a little bit scared. Is that… is that allowed? I don't think that's allowed. Besides, all the people look the same. They look really familiar…

Mr. Buteo and Mrs. Aquila are at the other side of the room, standing in front of one of the tanks. I duck behind a table covered in scary instruments and listen to them. "… it's ready," says Mr. Buteo. Then he laughs. I don't like his laugh, it's scary.

"I should think so," says Mrs. Aquila. "You've been working on this mutt for how many years again, darling?"

"Thirteen."

"That's a long time. I suppose it will work to _perfection?"_

"Perfection is guaranteed, my sweet," says Mr. Buteo, and he giggles again. "No one will be able to tell the difference."

"It does look rather good," says Mrs. Aquila. "But will it _work?" _

Mr. Buteo sighs. "Do you want the rundown again? Very well. My creation looks like our President, speaks like our President, smells like our President—tastes like our President too, I've no doubt. There are no differences between them, save the fact that this is a non-sentient mutt, capable only of following orders. I have programmed it to respond to the both of our voice patterns, as well as Regulus'. And Kelwin's handwriting."

"Kelwin? Whatever for?"

"Regulus expressed desire that Kelwin should be his stand-in for any activities that he would be unable to attend. Don't worry, love, that Avox is incapable of betraying us. He knows what Regulus would do to him."

"Our son is disturbingly wild," says Mrs. Aquila. "I ought to have a talk with him."

"He reminds me of myself at that age."

"Agreed." Mrs. Aquila begins pacing. "I suppose now that you know how to make these mutts the process will be faster?"

"Much faster."

"Excellent. You never know who'll need to be replaced once I am running this country." She chuckles softly. "There's only one thing left to do, I suppose. The hour is at hand. Soon—sometime during the Games, I think—we kill President Varro Pericles. And we replace him with your lovely creation."

_They wanna kill the President?! _I think, and gasp.

They heard me, I know they heard me. Timidly, I glance around the table to see them striding towards me, looking angry. I try to escape but Mr. Buteo grabs my wing and twists it, making me scream. "Dear, dear," he says unhappily. "Did you see him following us?"

"I most certainly did not," Mrs. Aquila says. "This is… unfortunate. I don't suppose you can make a Pullus mutt?"

I begin to cry, because I don't want them to make a Pullus mutt. Luckily, Mr. Buteo shakes his head. "Not soon enough for his absence to remain unnoticed." He scratches his chin. "Hmmm… I suppose we could wipe his memory."

"Buteo, I remember _specifically _how shoddy that thing is."

"I've been tinkering with it!" Mr. Buteo protests. "It works now. There are some… unpleasant side effects, but nothing that could be traced back to us. It would look more like an unfortunate illness or a freak accident. Nothing we could be blamed for."

"P-p-please don't kill me," I sob. "I don't wanna die. I'm sorry for listening. I'll never do it again!"

"No, you won't," Mrs. Aquila says. "Buteo, it won't erase his entire memory, will it? That will be difficult to explain."

"It could, if I wanted it to. But I'll focus on his memories of this event in particular." He sighs and begins to pull me down the aisle. "Come along, Pullus. This is what happens when you eavesdrop."

"W-where are we going?"

"I'm going to put you on that table and give you anesthetics. Then I am going to delete your memory of tonight's events. If things go well, you'll be… well, you won't die."

I don't even struggle. Mr. Buteo reaches the table he was talking about and tosses me onto it. I try to wriggle away before it straps me down, but I'm not fast enough. Tears pour down my cheeks. _What are they gonna do? They can't kill the President! He's a good President! They're bad, bad, bad people!_

My. Buteo presses a plastic mask over my nose and mouth. "This will put you to sleep," he promises. "When you wake up, you won't remember any of this. So try to relax." He smiles, baring his crooked teeth at me. I begin to cry even harder, but the sweet-smelling air pumping out of the mask makes me dizzy. The tears dry on my cheeks and my eyes close.

I can't move but I'm still awake. Somewhere to my left, I can hear the bad traitors talking. "Side effects?" asks Mrs. Aquila. "Such as?"

"There's really only one," says Mr. Buteo. "The implants I'll be sticking in our brave young friend's skull have an unfortunate tendency to burrow directly through the parietal lobe and parts of the occipital lobe. I'm no neuroscientist, although I _have _dabbled in that particular field—"

"Get to the point, please."

"Blindness. Permanent, incurable blindness."

_No, no, no. _But before I can open my mouth to say the words, I fall into the darkness.


	8. Far From the Madding Crowd

**No, this isn't the first day of training, as I'm sure some of you expected. Instead, here we have the evening after the chariot rides! In _The Hunger Games _there were a lot of evening scenes, and I think they can be very interesting and incorporated some evening chapters into my SYOT as well. This is one of three evening chapters. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_Chariot Rides- Evening_

* * *

**Flywheel Nightshade, 16**

**District Twelve**

Our horses have been returned to their respective places in the stables, and Terance and I are left standing uncertainly. We never received instructions beyond "don't screw up" in the chariot parade, and that's over now.

"I guess we should go to our floor," I suggest finally. Terance nods, looking at me with his grey Seam eyes. I find it ironic how Terance is of the merchant class and I am of the Seam, and yet he looks like a Seam boy and I have more of a merchant look to me. _We were practically made to be a team, _I think, slightly rueful. _Of course we had to meet in the Games. But that doesn't mean anything; I can still help him. I'm all he's got left. He'll go as far as I can get him._

Other tributes have begun to disperse as well, heading towards the stable doors. Impulsively I take Terance's hand, and together we join the stream. It seems that half the tributes have it in them to talk amongst themselves; the rest are trudging along silently. Terance and I fall into the latter category, although I wouldn't call our silence uncomfortable or sullen. Both of us know when to speak and when to be silent, and this is a time to listen.

The tributes from Four, for example, are standing directly in front of us. _Careers, _I think, giving Terance's hand a squeeze. _We don't want to attract their attention._

Both of them look stunning in their outfits. They have been fitted with bodysuits that are covered in rippling blue scales. The girl has a long trailing skirt which shimmers in the light, and the boy has a sort of dignified blazer. They look a thousand times better than Terance and I in our lumpy coal costumes.

"They _totally _loved me, Bain!" the girl is saying, tossing her cascading blonde hair. "I mean, did you hear them cheering? _I _did."

"Yeah," says Bain, looking somewhat bored by the girl's prattling. "I heard them."

She doesn't pick up on his obvious disinterest and continues talking. "A couple people threw roses at me and it was all just so perfect." She sighs contentedly. "Everything went really well tonight, just like I wanted! I looked fantastic and everybody thought so, which means I'm gonna get a _ton _of sponsors and then I'll win the Games!"

Bain raises an eyebrow. "Ah… Yeah, Waverly. Yeah."

Waverly finally notices that he seems distracted, and pouts. "Did you not think I looked pretty, Bain?" she asks, running her hand slowly up her side. "I thought I looked really… hot." Her voice is low and seductive, and she toys with the tight collar on her outfit, tearing it slightly down the side to reveal her collarbone.

Immediately, Bain blushes bright red and takes a step back. "Y-y-you looked lovely," he stammers, averting his eyes. "Really nice, Waverly. F-fantastic."

"I know!"

By this point, we've reached the elevator bank. I rather want to wait for the other tributes to disperse so Terance and I can have our own elevator, but I realize that Waverly has noticed me staring at her and is now looking at me interestedly. "Hi there, obvious Bloodbath!" she says cheerfully. "Do you like my costume too?"

There is an open elevator to my left; I can see it has occupants, but I really don't want to start talking to this girl. I already dislike her, a lot. She's obnoxious, and a Career to boot. "Yeah," I blurt, and drag Terance into the elevator. Waverly and Bain look at me quizzically as the doors slide shut, but don't attempt to follow.

I wipe a bead of sweat off my forehead and examine the other occupants of the elevator. I shrink slightly when I realize that one of them is the imposing boy from Two. He stands with his arms crossed, sporting a terrific scowl. His face has been covered in grey paint and he is wearing a bodysuit like the District Four tributes, but his matches his skin. Standing the way he is, he looks exactly like a statue, which I suppose is the point of the costume.

The elevator's other occupant is the girl from Three. Her silvery jumpsuit catches the light in the elevator and reflects it on the walls in a dozen places. Her dark brown hair has been swept into an up-do and is secured with wires that occasionally let loose (fake) sparks. She is wearing huge black boots that seem perfect for breaking toes. Our eyes meet for a moment, and she glares at me, clearly suspicious.

Both of these people seem to actively dislike me and Terance. Then again, the boy from Two isn't looking at us; he seems more angry in general. And the girl from Three is leveling the same cautious glare at the boy from Two, so she is probably just nervous about all her competition.

After a moment, the elevator doors slide open and the boy from Two starts towards the door. Belatedly, I realize I am in the way. Before I can move he is there, looming over me. I expect a threat. Instead, he looks a bit surprised, as if he didn't even notice me. "Excuse me."

Wordlessly, I move aside to let him pass. He steps onto his floor and the doors shut, hiding him away from me. _That was odd, _I think. _He was… politer than I thought he'd be. _Quite suddenly, I feel ashamed. _I just assumed he'd be a jerk because he looked like one. I shouldn't do that._

But I'm a tribute now. Judging people prematurely is going to be the least of my problems in the coming weeks. By nature I'm an empathetic person. If I want to survive, I'll have to ignore that.

Still, the idea of hurting anyone's feelings upsets me. The idea of _killing _people… will take some getting used to. _But everyone will be doing it. We all want to survive, don't we? I can't just stand there and let myself get taken out._

By the time I snap out of my reverie, the girl from Three is gone. Terance and I are alone, but neither of us says anything. There really isn't much to say.

It is only once we emerge from the elevator that I speak. "Hey, Terance. You're okay, right?" I have to make sure. He was so upset by the chariot parade, and I had to talk him through the entire thing. He's probably still worked up about it.

He looks at me tiredly before nodding. "Yeah," he says in a small voice. "I'm fine."

I'm considering pressing him more, but before I can Cincinnatus the escort has wandered into the corridor. He smiles when he sees us. "Hey, kids. You two looked great out there."

_No, we didn't, _I think, but I appreciate his kind words all the same. "Thanks," I say.

"Thanks," Terance echoes.

"No prob." Cincinnatus ruffles his orange hair. "Why don't you two get out of those costumes before dinner? I'll help you if you need it. Or I could get your stylists."

"I'm good. Thanks though." I smile at him to let him know his help is appreciated. Cincinnatus has been incredible these past couple days, and I'm sure that he'll continue to pull through. Terance echoes my sentiment and hurries off towards his room. I nod at Cincinnatus and do the same.

It is only once I reach the bathroom that I allow myself to collapse. I lean against the sink heavily and take deep breaths. _This is only the start, _I remind myself. _I have to keep on fighting. This is going to get much worse if I want it to get better at all._

It isn't a very happy thought. But it's all I have.

* * *

**Cian Typhon, 17**

**District Two**

Try as I might, I am unable to scrub the gray paint off my face. Even when I scrub at it with a soft towel it remains stubbornly smeared across my cheeks. For a moment I give up and look at myself in the mirror. My blue eyes are narrowed and, despite my stylist's best efforts, my dark brown hair is falling in my face. With the grey paint and my expression, I look like a psychotic.

Irritated now, I pull open the cabinet under the sink and rummage around in it until I find a bottle labeled "Makeup Remover" which I assume will help me with my problem. I pour some onto the towel and begin scrubbing again. In moments, the towel is covered in grey paint and my face has returned to its lightly tanned hue.

I feel a bit better when I exit the bathroom and go out into my room. I've never seen such finery, and it blows me away. I enjoyed the room on the train, but this room is simply incredible. The bed is nearly twice as big, and the sheets are a deep maroon and look more expensive than all the sheets in my entire house combined. There is a flat television on one of the walls, a comfortable couch in a corner, and some sort of water feature in the other corner, which can, according to the label, also produce chocolate if I'm in the mood. This finery makes me feel almost uncomfortable. It's so much more than I ever would have had at home. _I could sell one of these things and have enough money to make Mom better, _I think, clenching my fists. _It's not fair. It's just not fair._

Now I'm annoyed again. Frowning to myself, I unlock my door and step into the corridor. I was told that dinner would be ready as soon as Isis and I were ready, and here I am. I stroll towards the dining room, jamming my hands into my pockets.

Before I make it, a small form appears at the end of the corridor. When he catches sight of me, he lets out an excited yell. "Cian! Hey, Cian!"

"Hi, Vitus," I respond, and wait for my mentor to barrel towards me. Vitus Sherrer is thirteen; he won his Games last year at twelve. He never talks about them and he gets uncomfortable whenever anyone brings them up. He must be embarrassed about something—maybe because he didn't have many kills? Personally, I don't want a single one. Killing someone is the worst thing in the world. But I can't win if I won't do it. And I want to win… don't I?

"You looked really cool on the chariots," Vitus tells me, nodding as though the information is confidential. "You did the whole 'statue' thing _way _better than Isis." Then he laughs awkwardly. "Uh… don't tell her I said that?"

"I won't," I promise.

"Good!" He waves me forward, bouncing with energy. "So tomorrow is training and you've got to show your allies that you've got the _chops..."_

He continues to talk, and I don't have the heart to tell him that I have no intention of joining Isis in her alliance. He's the only person I've met so far who seems to have no problem with talking to me. People avoid me, and I have no idea why. But whatever it is, Vitus ignores it, and for that I am grateful.

He leads me into the dining room, still talking about training strategies. The only other person at the table is a man I assume is Isis' stylist. He takes a look at me and scoots away slightly. "Whoa there, Eyebrows. I don't know what's with ya, but I didn't kill your family, so there's no need to look at me like that. Okay, pal?"

I blink. "What? What are you saying about my family?! Who killed my family?!"

"Nobody killed your family, buddy. I was being sarcastic. Get used to it."

"Ah…" I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. The stylist is still glaring at me suspiciously, and I can't figure it out. What did I do? Perhaps he has money on Isis, and he wants to unnerve me. Well, if that's his game, it isn't working. I clear my throat pointedly and cross my arms over my chest.

Vitus directs me to a seat, and as soon as I sit down my stylist, Kamri, marches out of her room. She is a thick woman with green skin and even greener hair, and an easy smile. She doesn't smile at me very often, though. I can't figure it out.

She takes a seat next to her male counterpart and the two of them begin to discuss the cornbread sitting in the basket in front of them. Vitus appears about ready to talk to me again, but before he can Isis and our escort, Declan, enter the room. Declan is a quiet person; he doesn't really talk to anybody and when he does speak it is in short, mild-mannered sentences. He kind of reminds me of me.

Isis is practically Declan's opposite. Where he stands sullenly beside her, she bounces from side to side, jittering with energy. In her hands she turns something over and over. I recognize it as the choker that Isis' mentor Tacita always wears. _How did Isis get that? Perhaps Tacita gave it to her… _I'm not sure why Tacita would give Isis a present, though. Tacita doesn't seem to like Isis very much. In fact, she doesn't seem to like anybody. She's never actually attended a meal yet. I feel pretty awful for Isis in that respect; how is she supposed to win if her mentor never mentors her? _Then again, she's been training her whole life for this. She's still probably better off than I am._

Declan goes and sits in the corner and Isis throws herself into the chair next to Vitus. "Hey, guys," she says, catching sight of us. "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

I am confused. "What? What chicken?"

She blinks, brown eyes glittering. "The chicken of the _soul."_

"_What?"_

"I get it!" says Vitus, who clearly does not get it.

"Never mind," Isis sighs, after a moment. "You never laugh at my jokes."

"That was a joke?" I ask. "I thought you were asking a legitimate question."

She furrows her eyebrows. "Why would I ask you a legitimate question about a chicken and a road? You see any chickens around here?" As she says it, an Avox servant brings a platter, on which rests an exquisitely cooked chicken. "Oh hey! There's one! Although I doubt _that _chicken will be crossing a road any time soon."

"The next person that says the word 'chicken' is going to get brutally kicked under the table," threatens Isis' stylist. There is immediate silence, and he smiles and pulls off one of the cooked chicken's legs. "_Thank _you."

The silence continues for several moments as the Avox carves up the chicken and gives each of us a portion. Watching the Avox makes me sad. She is a pretty girl with dark brown hair pulled back in a braid and incredibly depressed eyes. She won't look any of us in the face and when I try to catch her eye she turns away. _That is so sick, _I think. _I bet anyone who speaks out against the government ends up like that. _It's wrong on about a million different levels. None of the Capitolians seem bothered by the Avox, but all three of us from District Two are watching her intently. Isis is frowning and biting her lip, Vitus seems guilty (for whatever reason) and I'm just upset.

"Wonder what she did," says Isis casually, as the Avox walks away.

The easy remark makes my stomach twist. _She doesn't care enough. She's just as bad as the rest of them! _I like Isis, I guess, but this kind of thing is the reason I'll never be a Career. _Never ever. _

Maybe I'll die… but I won't die as one of _them. _I promise.

* * *

**Lydia Starling, 15**

**District Three**

The Avox servants are clearing away the remnants of our meal. Out of everyone in this room, I trust them the most. No doubt all of them are filled with pent-up rage (which makes them dangerous) but the rage wouldn't be directed towards me, it would be directed towards the Capitolians, for enslaving them in the first place.

It's hard to pick out who I trust the _least, _though. The Capitolians are nuts, obviously. They are literally baying for my blood. Floriana the escort makes no attempt to hide it, and the stylists are definitely excited for the Games as well. Still, this makes them slightly more trustworthy: they'll wait for the Games for their enjoyment. They wouldn't risk hurting me before that.

The mentors, though… Coyle Reid, William's mentor, is a real bastard. I imagine that he enjoys seeing other people unhappy. He doesn't seem to particularly care whether or not William lives. And I'm not even his tribute. If he's indifferent towards William's life and he likes to see people unhappy… He's probably counting the minutes until he gets to watch me die. But will he attack before that? I doubt it, but I'll be sure to lock and barricade my door tonight.

Olivine, my own mentor, is another matter entirely. She's coarse with me. Twice now she's told me that unless I can trust her, I will certainly die. I shiver. _How can she expect me to trust her if she blatantly threatens me? _I can see her slipping into my room tonight and pressing a pillow down over my face because I'm "too untrusting." Obviously the abuse in her past has driven her to the point that she craves acceptance, so much that she'll resort to violence if she doesn't get it. And I'm no actress; I can't pretend to love her when she repulses me. _I have to be vigilant. I must never be alone with her._

But I think I can trust Olivine even more than him. _William Wilson. _He was so kind to me on the train. Charming, really. It's so obviously an act that I can't stand it. I mean, it must be an act. We're tributes. Only one can win. Why would he be friendly when he knows I'll have to die in order for him to win?

_He wants me to think that it's not like that, _I think, wrapping my arms around myself. _He wants me to think that when the time comes he'll spare me. And then, when I lower my guard, he'll… he'll…_

I can only imagine the things he'll do to me. Someone so "charming" obviously has perversions beyond count. _He's probably one of those people that cut their victims open while they're still alive, _I consider. _A vivisection enthusiast. So gross. _

"Well," says Olivine, and I blink. Her words have broken me out of my reverie. "Come on, lot. We'll watch the recaps of the chariot parade."

"What's the point?" asks Floriana. "They looked decent at best. I wouldn't sponsor them."

"Shut your mouth, woman," snarls Coyle. "You're too cheap to sponsor a one of 'em."

Floriana wrinkles her nose. "_Cheap?" _she hisses. "Don't talk about what you—"

"Both of you, shut up," says awkward silence settles onto the group. After a moment, Floriana gets to her feet, swirling her skirts, and storms into the parlor. Coyle shrugs and follows her, and Olivine motions that William and I should do the same.

We get up in unison. William immediately walks around the table to stand next to me. I manage to hide my shudder of revulsion. William and I knew each other before the reaping—our fathers are good friends, after all. No doubt William thought we would ally. Well, that will not be happening. If he thinks that I'm going to fall for his tricks, he's an idiot. And William Wilson has never struck me as an idiot.

He smiles at me now, as we walk into the other room. "Don't worry, Lydia," he says. "I think you looked very nice."

"Thank you," I reply stiffly. I don't think I looked very good in the parade, but a part of me is flattered by his words. Still, they were probably calculated in order to garner that exact reaction. I ignore the pleased feeling and look pointedly away.

Despite the fact that there are multiple chairs, everyone elects to squeeze onto one couch in order to view the parade. I find myself sandwiched between William and Coyle. William shifts discreetly in order to give me more room; Coyle leers at me.

Floriana turns on the television and asks it to go to channel 30. A moment later, an image of the District Ten bull outfits flashes onscreen, with the words "Chariot Recaps: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly" scrawled on top. In spite of everything, I find myself a tiny bit excited to see what they say about me. Hopefully I'm in the "good" category.

Lactuca Greengrass and Cicero Kapitan are soon happily discussing outfits. They are very happy with the outfits from Districts One and Two. When William and I are pictured in our chariot with the grey horses, I find myself feeling a bit proud. _I didn't look so bad._

"I've got to say," says Lactuca. "These two are kinda boring compared to the ones before them."

"True," says Cicero. "But they don't look _bad. _This outfit isn't particularly memorable. I'd say these tributes are painfully average."

And that's it. They immediately move on to District Four, and are raving again. _Of course they like the two killers better than me, _I think dourly. _I can't say I'm even surprised._

I end up watching the rest of the recaps, if only because I don't want to leave early and inspire an attack. There are several highlights that make me feel a bit better about being "painfully average." Lactuca and Cicero loathe the clunky District Six train outfits, and rail about them for several minutes. They just laugh at the plainclothes the District Eight tributes are wearing. They laugh again at District Nine fraying wheat outfits and add that they are totally uninterested in seeing any more of those tributes than they have to. And they sigh at the District Twelve coal outfits, and proclaim both tributes "definite Bloodbaths."

_Alright, _I think. _I'm painfully average. I'm not a "definite Bloodbath." _Things could certainly be worse.

I stand up abruptly, stretching my legs. Everyone turns to look at me. "I think there's still some discussion left," says William. "About the betting so far and whatnot. You should stay, Lydia."

I force a yawn and hope it doesn't look as fake as it sounds. "I'm sorry. I'm tired." I whip around and walk out of the room quickly. I can hear the couch squeaking; is someone getting up? What if they try to drag me back? Fear seizes me. I begin to run, hurtling through the dining room and into the corridor that leads to my room. I fumble at my doorknob with sweaty palms and sigh with relief when I hear the latch clicking. I shoulder the door open roughly and stumble inside. Immediately, I kick the door shut and lock it.

With the door safely locked behind me, I can pause for a moment to breathe. But only for a moment. After my heart stops pumping, I cross the room and seize a wooden chair resting at my desk. I drag the chair over to the door and jam it under the doorknob. _There, _I think, taking a step back to admire my handiwork. _That should keep out any unwanted visitors._

Sweat beads at my brow. I wipe it away and collapse onto my bed. This whole situation is trying; I can't trust anyone but myself in this place. _I want to go home, _I think. _I want to go home._

And if I want to get there, trusting only myself is probably the best move I can make.

* * *

**Bain Arnon, 16**

**District Four**

"Well, I'm gonna head to bed," says Ceylon Romunera, the District Four escort. "Goodnight, kiddies! Don't let the bedbugs bite!" Giggling, she waves at us before sashaying out of the parlor.

Now Waverly and I are the only people left in the room. Waverly glares at Ceylon's retreating figure and makes a face. "I hate her," she confides. "She's so, like… annoying. I mean, _hello, _why are you even competing with me? I'm much more attractive." She says it with an air of supreme confidence.

Waverly _is _more attractive, but I'm too embarrassed to agree with her. Instead I make a noncommittal sound and get to my feet. "I think I'm going to go to bed as well," I say. "Goodnight, Waverly."

"Aw, come on!" Waverly exclaims. "That's so boring! It isn't even twelve yet!" She sidles closer to me, swaying her hips in order to move. "Let's do something fun, Bain. Come on."

"Fun?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. Surely Waverly doesn't mean…

"There are all kinds of things to do late at night when nobody's around," Waverly purrs. "We could play a game. We could go exploring. We could—"

"Exploring!" I interrupt, determined not to let her go any farther. "Yeah, that sounds great!"

She looks a bit disappointed. "Never really pegged you as an explorer," she mutters, getting to her feet. "Well then, explorer, where do you wanna go? Preferably somewhere _private."_

I swallow harshly. I don't know anything about the Training Center except that the basement is where the training gym is. "Do you want to check out the gym?" I ask. Honestly, I could care less about the gym, but I might as well look like I care. If I want to be a Career, I'll really have to sell it.

I don't want to be a Career, not really, but my only other option is death. I'm from a Career district, so I have an advantage there. The others will know that I've been reaped, but hopefully they'll give me a shot anyway. _I need them, _I tell myself, even though the idea of joining the most antagonistic alliance in the Games makes me feel ill. _I'll die for sure if I'm not a Career._

Anyway, if I act like I care about training, it should increase my chances of getting a spot in the alliance. Waverly appears to assume that I've already been accepted into the Career alliance and is functioning as if I will be her ally in the arena. I don't really know how I feel about an alliance with Waverly. On the one hand, she's cruel; she volunteered to kill children. But she seems to like me, and she can probably protect me better than _I _can protect me.

The prospect of visiting the gym seems to please Waverly. "Alright. I can show you how good I am with a spear." She grins suddenly. "What about you, Bain? I haven't seen you in the training center back home. What are you good at?" She seems smug, as though she's assuming I'll be miserable at everything.

"I was always too busy to go to the training center," I lie, unwilling to reveal that I was simply too lazy. Kendall always warned me about not going. Thinking about Kendall is still making me just as sad as I felt when we said goodbye. He's not my father, but as I never knew my father he's the closest thing I have. It was Kendall that found me in the alley where my mother tossed me in an effort to get rid of me, and Kendall that took me home and raised me as his own son. _I never told him I loved him, _I think. _When we said goodbye I never said "I love you." I should've said it._

"So I _am _the best!" Waverly crows.

"Yeah," I tell her. She probably is. I do have an affinity for the short sword or knife, simply because I'm quick to strike at vulnerable places on a person, but I wouldn't say that I'm particularly skilled with either weapon. Waverly has probably been using both since she could toddle.

"Let's go," says Waverly, grabbing my hand and dragging me towards the elevator at the end of the hall. I don't resist, and allow my partner to pull me into the elevator. She presses the button labeled "B" with her knuckle. I'm half-expecting the doors to remain open, but they close and the elevator begins to descend.

"I didn't expect that to work," I admit. "Maybe the doors downstairs are locked."

Waverly tosses her blonde hair and doesn't reply, choosing instead to inspect her well-manicured nails. After a few moments, the doors slide open. Waverly steps out of the elevator and I follow.

We are in a darkened corridor, standing in front of a set of large double doors. Waverly crosses over to them and pulls on the door handles. Nothing happens. She frowns and heaves on the doors again, but they remain stubbornly closed. "Oh _hell _no," she mumbles, straining furiously.

I leave her to her task and move farther down the corridor. There's only one other door, and I give it a half-hearted yank. To my surprise, it comes open. I peer inside, and then cock my head. The room is almost entirely filled by a rectangular pool of water. _This must be for swimming practice, _I think. I know the basics of swimming, but I'm not exactly a master. I probably shouldn't go in there.

Waverly has noticed the open door and comes over. "Oh!" she says. "A pool!" Then her face darkens. "I hate swimming," she grumbles. "It gets my hair all gross. I guess if it isn't too deep…" She steps into the room and I follow her.

My district partner pads over to the side of the pool. "Okay, it's only four feet deep!" she exclaims. "We can just splash around." With a smile, she reaches for the hem of her skirt and moves to pull it over her head. "Well, go on," she says, when she catches me staring. "What, are you going to get your clothes wet?"

"Y-you're not going to—to take it _all _off… a-are you?"

She raises her eyebrow. "Don't be weird, Bain."

_That doesn't answer my question, _I think, and find myself frozen. Waverly pulls the dress off and stretches. She doesn't move to unclasp her blue-patterned bra, but my face is still bright red. Slowly, I strip off my shirt. I'm suddenly ashamed of my slender chest, and wish I had more muscle. Waverly isn't looking at me, though. She's admiring her own reflection in the placid pool water.

Because she isn't looking at me, I'm able to unbuckle my belt. Without the belt to keep them up, my dress pants can no longer stay on my slender hips, and they slip down to my ankles. I kick them off and they join my shirt in a tangled heap.

Waverly turns to look at me. "Let's go in," she says, extending her hand. My palms are sweaty and Waverly grimaces when my hand finds hers. "Uh, that's really gross, Bain."

"S-s-sorry."

She moves forward and slips into the pool, squealing as the water laps at her middle. "Oooh, it's nice!"

I have to agree. The water is the perfect temperature; warm but not hot, and pleasant. I lean against the pool wall and try to relax, doing my best to ignore Waverly bouncing around in the water. Sudden fatigue grips me, and I yawn sleepily and stretch out, enjoying the water that presses up against my chest.

I'm in a pool with a beautiful woman, in a beautiful city. I have every luxury at my fingertips. Everything I've ever wanted or required is just waiting for me. I'm living life the way it ought to be lived.

_So why, _I ask myself, _am I feeling so unhappy? _The answer, of course, is obvious. _It's easy to get all this. You only have to die._

* * *

**Mallory Atella, 17**

**District Ten**

I have a feeling that when the Capitolians were designing the tribute bedrooms, they assumed that said tributes would never actually _use _the desk in the corner. But here I am, hunched over the wooden desk, holding a pen between my fingers so tightly that my hand is cramping.

The desk lamp illuminates the detailed notes I have compiled regarding the other tributes. All of them are unpredictable in their own respects (and I hate that, I really do) but if I can study them before I have to deal with them in the arena, I'll have an advantage.

Of course, I can't know very much from glimpses of the tributes during their reapings and their actions during the chariot parade. My district partner, for example, was acting completely loony during the parade, and I'm well aware that he isn't normally like that. I was told that he had been mistakenly overdosed and that I was to keep him from falling out of the chariot. It was a difficult task, but I did fairly well, and there was only that one minor incident where I had to drag him back into the chariot by his hair that things went badly.

I am going to have to observe the tributes over the three day training period in order to get a good feel of their characters. For now, though, I am simply focusing on how popular certain tributes might seem, as sponsorship can be as important as skill in the arena. I have narrowed the pool down to the six tributes I believe are most popular with the Capitol right now: Ivory Margueax, Gander Gleam, Isis Mortici, Waverly Breeze, Pandora Barke, and Alder Stain. The Career tributes are self-explanatory. I added the District Seven tributes after a few moments of consideration. I believe that, based on their excellent costumes in the opening ceremonies, the Capitol will favor them. In addition, Pandora's raven adds interest, as do Alder's scars. They are mysterious enough to garner a lot of attention.

These six I will be watching intently. Still, private training has yet to happen. If any of them get unimpressive scores, their sponsors will disintegrate and move on to other worthy candidates. _Maybe even me. _I failed to impress in the chariot parade and during my reaping, so I will have to shine during private training and the interviews.

I groan, leaning back in the chair and letting the pen fall from my throbbing fingers. I have a lot to plan and not much time to plan it. _What will I be doing in the private training session, for example? _Still, there's no point in thinking about that right now. I don't know what stations there are in the basement. I'll have to experience a day of training before coming back up to my room to make my plan.

In the meantime, I should get some sleep. _Tomorrow will be a busy day, _I think. _I'll need to visit as many survival stations as I can. _I know that they'll have them. I also know that there will be weapons training, but I don't plan on doing much of that. The whole thing is a sham. How could I possibly learn enough about a weapon in three days to stand a chance against a Career who has been training with that weapon their entire life? I would be better served sticking to useful things, like snare building and poisonous plant identification.

I switch off the desk lamp and navigate my room in total darkness. I flop into my bed and roll myself in the covers, trying to get comfortable. When I think I'm set, I close my eyes.

And open them again.

I can't sleep just yet. It's after one in the morning but I'm not at all tired. Normally I would be. Normally I'd be at home, and I'd be exhausted from a long day of school and then babysitting my two younger siblings. The three older siblings might have been making noise, but I would ignore it. Here, everything is quiet and the bed is twice is comfortable as the one at home. Even the temperature is nicer. But here, I can feel my death settling over my prone body like a shroud, and I know I won't be able to sleep for a while.

I'm so afraid to die. If I had a definitive answer as to what happens after death then I wouldn't be scared. If someone with authority told me "you cease to exist" then I wouldn't be frightened of it. If they said "you live in the afterlife with your dead family and friends" then I wouldn't be scared. If I was told "you are reborn as another thing" or "your spirit lingers on" then the whole thing wouldn't bother me.

But I _don't know. _I don't know. That scares me more than I can say.

Knowing that I am so afraid of death, I'll do everything in my power to avoid it. If that means killing other people, then I will kill other people. It's callous, but I refuse to lie to myself. I will not give up because I don't want to hurt anyone else. What I _want _is to go home to my friends, to my family. Twenty-three people will have to die in order for one person to see their home again. I refuse to be one of the twenty-three.

I shift in the bed, pushing my hair away from my face. _If I worry about dying, I'm never going to fall asleep. _As always when I find myself stressed about something, I think of the logic problems we are taught in school. Other students never cared about how many apples Jimmy had, or how long it would take Calla to get from the reaping square to her house, but I always enjoyed such brain-teasers. They help me relax.

_ Here's one, _I think. _If Mallory goes into the Hunger Games alone, what are her chances? Simple, one in twenty-four. But what if Mallory has allies? Do the allies increase her chances? If so, how much? Let's say that Mallory has two allies. Does she now have three in twenty-four chances of winning? No, that can't be right…_

The room is dark and lovely and comfortable, and as long as I have logic on my side, death is far away. Despite my previous reservations, I find that sleep comes easy. As long as I'm safe and warm in this bed, sleep will always come easy, I think.


	9. Persuasion

**Oyoyoyoyoy.**

**I just watched _Inglorious Basterds _the other day and it is my new favorite movie. This is not relevant to anything, but I couldn't actually think of anything relevant to say in my author's note but I didn't want to just not have an author's note because that would ruin the pattern of having author's notes in every single chapter.**

**So yeah. It was a pretty good movie, I guess. Explosions happened. Also fire. And some headbutts.**

**You should see it if you haven't already.**

**Goodbye.**

* * *

_Training Day One_

* * *

**Acacia Rhododendron, 15**

**District Eleven**

The elevator ride down to the training gym is somewhat terse. Last night, our mentors asked us whether or not we planned on allying, and both Stin and I were very noncommittal about it. To be honest, I haven't been thinking about allies much. This whole thing is a nightmare, and it's not the right time or place to make friends. Especially since each and every one of those friends will have to die if I want to win.

I'm not ruling out alliances. But I don't know Stin well enough to put my life in his hands. He seems very smart and is quite funny as well, but I'm not ready to take a step like that. I don't know if I'll ever be ready.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Stin smiles at me. "After you, Miss Rhodo-dodendron."

I smile a bit at that. Stin has been calling me that ever since our escort mispronounced my name during the reapings. Now that I think about it, _everyone _has been mispronouncing my name ever since. I think the entire Capitol has it wrong. I don't really mind, though. What difference does it make?

I thank my district partner and step out of the elevator. My long dark hair has been pulled back into a ponytail, to make training easier. I'm not really sure what I'm going to train with and whatnot, but I'm definitely not going to waste the day.

Stin and I hurry to a set of double doors which are partially open, revealing the large gym inside. I can see tributes milling around inside. I don't know if we're late or early; it seems that the vast majority of tributes have already arrived, but there are definitely some missing. Neither of the tributes from District Nine seem to be here, for example.

The two of us slip through the double doors, and Stin immediately moves away from me. We were told that if we are uninterested in alliances, looking like a united front is a bad idea and will only draw unwanted attention towards us. As Stin moves away, though, I feel a bit lost. He's been very kind to me, and I wish I could stick with him for a while, at least until I get my bearings.

It seems that we are meant to wait for the other tributes to arrive. I glance around; it looks as though there is another missing district in addition to District Nine. _It looks like the tributes from District Four are late as well, _I think. _I wonder what they're up to?_

Five minutes later, the two from Four wander in. Neither of them seem particularly sorry for being late. After ten more minutes of waiting, an Avox is dispatched to collect the two from Nine. Several tributes are talking amongst themselves, but I have no one to talk to. I drift into an unoccupied corner of the gym and lean against the wall, quietly waiting.

Finally, the Avox appears with the two missing tributes in tow. The girl crosses her arms over her chest and glares at everyone antagonistically, and the boy smiles a bit sheepishly and gives a slight wave to his audience.

"Ahem." Everyone turns to look at the man who has stepped onto the raised podium at the far end of the gym. "Welcome, welcome," he says sweetly, twirling a lock of jet-black hair around his bony finger. "My name is Decius and I am delighted to have you all here. I'm sure you've all noticed the training stations set up! They are for your personal usage for the next three days. Feel free to learn about anything you think will help you win the Hunger Games!" Now," he continues, pacing along the edge of the podium. "I have a few rules for you, and then we can get started!

"First and foremost, you will not attack or cause deliberate harm to any other tribute. If you wish to spar with someone, there are trainers at every station that are more than happy to work with you. Secondly, you will leave training materials at the station you found them. It makes clean-up easier," he says, chuckling. "Lastly, if you have any troubles you come directly to me! Do not start any fights because no one here is in any mood to clean up _messes." _He pauses for a moment before continuing. "And that's all, have fun!" He claps his hands and men and women in red uniforms enter through the double doors, walking towards the training stations set up around the gym.

I pull away from the wall but remain where I am. _Where to go first? _I think. My mentor said to avoid things that I'm good at. So what am I good at? There's a set of nets that are rigged up to the ceiling for climbing. _I'm an excellent climber, so I shouldn't go over there, _I think. There also seems to be a set of machines built to test your stamina and speed in running, and I'm a fast runner. _Avoid that station. _Lastly, there's an edible plants station and a computerized test to go along with it. _Everyone in District Eleven knows about edible plants, _I think, but decide to avoid that station all the same.

What I'd really like to do is go to a weapons station. I've never used a weapon before, but I know that I have very good aim. If I could get my hands on some knives, throwing knives maybe, I'd probably do okay with them. _Of course, I might get the throw wrong and hit them with the grip instead of the blade. _

By now, tributes have already dispersed to various stations. The weapons stations are all clustered together and I take a minute to examine them. _The stations I want are the long-range weapons stations, _I think. _Now, which ones are those? _I count four: throwing knives, throwing axes, spears, and the bow and arrow.

To my dismay, it seems that the Careers have gravitated straight towards the weapons stations and are now showing off their abilities. The District Four girl has already picked up a spear and is currently jabbing it into a dummy's guts with the kind of accuracy that makes me nervous. Throwing axes is empty for a moment, but right when I decide it might be right for me, the boy from Seven appears and picks up one in each hand before hurling them. One thuds into the dummy's neck, the other into its bowels.

Well, never mind, then.

Throwing knives and bow and arrow are still mercifully empty, but they are unlikely to remain that way unless I pick one. _Bow and arrows, _I decide. _I can't accidentally turn an arrow the wrong way around, can I?_

I cross the gym, barely managing to avoid the pair from Eight, and make it to the bow and arrows station without further incident. The trainer, who had been leaning against a quiver and looking bored, glances up and smiles when she sees me. "Hi!" she gushes. "For a second there I was worried nobody would come over here! I didn't get anybody last year and it was so boring."

"Hi," I respond. "I don't know if I'm what you wanted, but…"

"No, no, no," says the trainer, waving her hands. "I never get Careers anyway, so don't worry about that. They like working with their hands and whatnot. But the bow and arrows are perfect if you want to survive!" She hefts up a bow from a rack on the wall and yanks me closer to her. "No, too big," she says, and replaces it. After a moment, she finds one that satisfies her. "Oh, here we are!" she says. "This is the perfect fit!"

Grabbing my wrist, she pulls me over to a miniature shooting range, with the ever-popular dummies set up at the end. "Alright," she says, shoving the bow into my hands. "You want to hold it like this." Efficiently, she circles around me, poking me into place and arranging my arms so that my stance is acceptable. "Just stand with your feet spread apart a bit more—yeah, like that—okay! You've got a good stance right there!"

Holding the bow is more difficult than I thought. The strain of keeping my arms up hits me almost immediately. My back is bent to accommodate the large weapon. After a few moments of standing uncertainly, I glance at the trainer, who is sitting on the stool looking at me. "Um…" I say. "Should I maybe pick up an arrow now?"

She laughs. "No!" she exclaims. "You have to get the stance right first. See how long you can hold it!"

"But... ah… we only have three days…"

"We'll get to shooting," says the trainer, "as long as you come back here every day. Look around. You see anyone else jumping for bow and arrows? Most kids assume they can't learn something like this in three days, so that leaves me with one student to work with! If this is the only thing you do for the next three days, I guarantee you won't be half-bad by the end!"

The trainer is smiling so encouragingly that I can't help but smile back. "Okay," I promise, because her speech has convinced me. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all. Maybe it'll even be easy!

"Great! Now don't move for the next fifteen minutes!"

Well, maybe not _too _easy.

* * *

**Isis Mortici, 16**

**District Two**

The boy from District Four really isn't good at this.

I pretend to hack away at my dummy while I watch him. He's definitely decent with a sword, which means that he's gotten _some _training. But he doesn't know where to put it. He's fighting a dummy, and he keeps on analyzing it like he's waiting for it to attack him.

I consider trying to mentor him, but that's the trainer's job. I turn back to my own dummy instead. "Well, Mr. Dummy," I mumble, coming in close and spearing him through the guts, "maybe if you weren't such a _dummy _you wouldn't be in this predicament." I let out a short giggle and catch the boy from Four watching me. I smile at him, and wave. "Hi!" I call. "Do you like killing dummies too?"

He blinks. "I guess so," he says, sounding wary. _I wonder what his deal is, _I think. _Maybe he's afraid of me! _

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask him.

His expression doesn't change. He looks more bored than anything else. "Nope."

"But maybe you're just a good actor!" I wail. "How do I know if you're telling the truth? I want _proof, _bub, solid proof!"

"I don't have any proof," he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Then that's that, I'm afraid," I say, shaking my head sadly and yanking my light sword from the dummy's guts. "Get on your knees, District Four. I've taken off enough heads to know how to get this job done."

He still doesn't look very alarmed, although I notice how he clutches the hilt of his sword. "That's not allowed, District Two!"

"I _know!" _I exclaim. "I was _joking!" _Before he can get away, I lean over and clap him roughly on the shoulder. "I'm Isis. Who are you, my good knight?"

"Bain," he says. "And what do you mean, 'my good knight?'"

"Half the time I don't know what I mean," I say wisely.

"That's… oddly poetic," he remarks.

"_Thank _you!"

Now I'm kind of invested in continuing this conversation, but two more tributes are walking our way. I recognize the boy from District One. "He's _hot," _I mumble, more to myself than Bain, but my new friend hears me anyway and rubs his elbow awkwardly. Alongside the boy from One his district partner, looking very neat in a monochrome blue ensemble.

Both tributes come to a stop in front of us. The girl looks like she is about to introduce herself, but her partner cuts her off. "Hey," he says. "I'm Gander Gleam. You probably already knew that, but whatever, I'll say it again." His smile is dazzling.

Bain gives a terse nod. "Bain Arnon," he says.

"Are we all saying last names?" I ask. "I don't want to be excluded. I'm Isis Mortici! Howdy!" I waggle my fingers at both tributes from District One.

The girl waves back and offers a delicate smile. "My name is Ivory Margueax," she says. "I'm charmed to meet you all."

"So," says Gander, rubbing his hands together. "You two in or out?"

"In or out?" I ask. "In what? Out what?"

Gander rolls his eyes. "What the hell do you _think? _The Career alliance!" His chest swells. "I want to get one thing straight. _I'm the leader. _Anyone who has a problem with that can get the hell out."

After a moment of somewhat tense silence, Bain nods sharply. "I'm in," he says.

"Good," says Gander. "What about you, Isis?"

For a moment I consider turning down his offer, just to freak him out, but he seems like the type who would take it far too personally. "I'm in too, I guess."

Gander nods slowly. "What about your district partner?" he asks. "The guy who got reaped. Is he in?"

I pout. "No. Definitely not." He told me in the elevator today. Gave me a horrible look while he was doing it, too, as though he were judging me or something. I was a little hurt, to be honest. It didn't help that this was almost immediately after I'd triggered my Trigeminal Neuralgia for the morning. The attacks _will _happen at least once a day, but if I touch my eyelid in the morning and again in the afternoon in the privacy of my bathroom, the attack won't happen again unless something mistakenly brushes my eyelid—and that's kind of a rare occurrence.

Gander rolls his eyes. "Well, I hope he doesn't expect any mercy in the arena, because he sure as hell isn't going to get any. What about your district partner?" he asks, turning to Bain.

"Waverly is definitely in," says Bain. "She's coming over here now, actually."

I look in the direction Bain is looking, and blink as the District Four girl saunters over to our group. She has a brilliant smile plastered on her face, and she waves frantically when she sees Bain. "Hey!" she calls, barging into the circle. "Did I miss the party?"

Gander is looking her over with a raised eyebrow. "Baby," he says, "it's just getting _started."_

Waverly blinks innocently, her green eyes glistening wetly in the dim light. "Ooh," she says, eyeing Gander's abdominal muscles unabashedly. "Hello, handsome."

I stick my tongue out. "Whoa with the sexual tension," I groan, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Bain turns a little pink and Ivory wrinkles her nose. "It's stifling me! I'm drowning in waves of mutual attraction!"

Waverly glares at me. "Jealous, hon?" she asks, indicating her body. She _is_ really attractive, probably a lot more attractive than I am. But I'm not really jealous.

"No!" I say cheerfully, and giggle when her eyes narrow dangerously.

"Ladies, ladies," says Gander, holding up his hands. "Try not to fight over little old me. There's plenty for everyone. Even you, Ivory." He smiles at her, and she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest.

"No, thank you," she says primly. "I'd prefer to discuss the sixth member of our alliance. See, I didn't expect the boy from Two to be interested in joining us, and I believe the boy from Seven would be a suitable replacement." She points him out to us. Currently, he's beating a dummy to death with an axe.

"Yeah, he seems like Career material," I admit.

Gander thinks about it. "Not _Victor _material," he says critically, "but he seems decent enough, I suppose."

"The Mighty Leader has spoken!" I say. "Lead on, O Mighty One!"

This seems to please Gander. "Follow me," he commands, waving us forward. Bain shrugs and puts his sword back in its stand. I shove mine into Mr. Dummy's kneecap and join the group.

Waverly gravitates towards Bain and the two begin chatting, so I walk up to Ivory instead. "Hi," I say. "We're going to be allies, huh?"

Ivory gives me a small smile. "It would appear so," she says. "I'm sure it will be a pleasure to work with you."

"You seem alright yourself," I reply. "You and Bain." I don't say anything about Waverly and Gander. I don't think either of them is particularly likeable, and I don't think I'm going to enjoy working with them at all.

"Thank you," says Ivory, leveling a glare at Gander's back.

"So you don't like him?" I whisper. "I get it. He's annoying, he's _really _annoying."

Ivory shakes her head, although it's clear her heart isn't in it. "Oh no, I like him just as much as I like everybody else," she says simply.

"I think you're _lying."_

She frowns at me, looking affronted. "Excuse me?"

"Whoops," I mutter. "It looks like I crossed a line. Did I cross a line? Sorry if I did."

For a moment it looks as though Ivory won't forgive me. Then she sighs and shakes her head, black hair brushing against her chin. "You aren't the first person to cross a line today," she says softly. "You are forgiven."

The conversation breaks off abruptly as we reach the training station where the boy from Seven is currently collecting axes. When he sees the five of us watching him, he freezes.

That makes Gander chuckle. "We're not here to kill you," he laughs. "Yet, anyway." He strolls up to the boy and puts his hands on his hips. "You interested in being a Career, Seven?"

Slowly, the boy puts his axes down. The scars on his arms ripple weirdly. "Why?" he asks. "Are you inviting me into your alliance?"

"We would love to have you," says Ivory sweetly.

The boy smiles at her. "Did you come all the way over here to tell me that? That's awfully kind of you."

"We _all _came over here," Waverly interrupts.

"So you did," says the boy. "Thank you for that. I'm glad that you all care so much."

"Some of us care more than others," Gander snaps. "Personally, I don't give a shit whether or not you join up, but the longer I have to wait the more I don't want you around. Make up your mind."

The boy looks a bit shocked at being spoken to so rudely, but makes the wise decision to not confront Gander about it. He doesn't think for very long. "Well," he says. "I'd like to get to know everyone better, so…"

"You accept. Great. Figured you would," says Gander. "Alright, so this is it. We six are the Careers, and _no one else. _I'm the leader, so you come to me with any problems." He yawns and stretches. "I'm going to train now," he announces. "You guys can do what you want." He strides off towards the weight training station.

"Come on, Bain," says Waverly. "I promised I'd show you how good I am with a spear!" She grabs him by the shoulder and moves to pull him off. "Bye, everybody. See you guys at lunch!" Bain barely has time to nod at us before Waverly drags him away.

Now Ivory, the boy from Seven and I are the only ones left. He smiles at us both. "My name is Alder," he says. "It's very nice to meet both of you."

"Isis," I say, by way of introduction. "Sup?"

"I'm Ivory," says the girl from District One. "I'm quite glad you accepted. I think you'll add a lot to the team."

While I'd like to get to know Alder better, I'd also like to get back to sword training. "I'm gonna go finish off Mr. Dummy's family," I announce, pointing back towards my weapons station. "Have a nice chat, you crazy kids!" I skip away before either of them can say anything.

When I return to the station, the sword I left in Mr. Dummy's kneecap is waiting for me. I pull it out and begin to disembowel the other dummies, feeling very accomplished. _I have my alliance, _I think, as cotton insides rain down on me. _I'll be with other kids. My family away from family. _The thought makes me happier than I can say, so I'm smiling as I plunge my sword into Mrs. Dummy's kidneys, again and again and again.

* * *

**Gander Gleam, 18**

**District One**

I heave the fifty pound weight into the air, letting out a soft grunt as I heft it over my head. My muscles ripple as I thrust the weight skyward. _Everybody look, _I think, punching the air with my new trophy. _Everybody get a good look. This is what you bitches are up against._

I'm still showing off my incredible strength when a bell begins to ring and Decius the head trainer vaults back onto the stage. "Lunch has been prepared!" he calls. "Everyone head into the next room and take a seat!"

I shrug and replace the weight, wiping a bead of sweat off my neck. I jam my hands into my pockets and stroll towards the dining room. _This food better be delicious, _I think. _I'm starving. _To be honest, I haven't been training, per se—just showing the other tributes what a threat I'll be. But I've been doing it all morning and I've worked up an appetite.

On the way to the dining room, I meet up with Bain, who is coming from the knife work station. _I doubt he's anywhere near as good as me, _I think, because the dagger is my main weapon and Bain got reaped. _He isn't a real Career, but we need the alliance nice and big to keep up appearances. Besides, I'll be able to make up for his lack of experience._

"Hey, man," I say, clapping him roughly on the shoulder. "How's the knife coming along?"

Bain shrugs. "Alright," he says warily. "I think I'm better with a sword."

"Better stick to the sword, then," I say. "Knives are _my _weapon. Got it?" At the expression on his face, I burst out laughing. "Don't get all fucking excited. If there are any extra knives in the Cornucopia, yeah, sure, take one. But I get first dibs. I'm the leader, remember?"

We arrive at the dining room before Bain can answer. It's a lot smaller than the gym. In the center of the room, eight long tables have been set up. At the moment, two of them are occupied by tributes.

I point out the table in the middle. "That one," I say, and barge through the crowd of tributes to get to it. I sit at the very center of the bench attached to the table; Bain sits at the end on the other side. Seconds later, Waverly slinks out of the crowd and immediately sits next to Bain, as close as she can get without sliding into his lap. I frown. _What the hell is she sitting next to _him _for? _I think. _It's _me _she should want to sit next to._

I'm about to voice this opinion out loud when Alder appears. He glances at the free spots and sits next to me without a moment's hesitation. _Oh, fucking fantastic. Tree boy likes me the best. Wonderful._

"Hey, guys," says Alder, beaming at the three of us. "How's the morning been?"

"It's been really fun," says Waverly happily. "I got to show Bain my skills with a spear. Wasn't that fun, Bain?" She nudges him with her shoulder, leaning so close that her forehead rubs against his cheek. His eyes widen and he nods.

"Y-yeah! Loads of fun!"

"And I've been showing everybody else just how screwed they are," I pronounce.

"Who's screwed?" asks Isis, popping up from behind me. She smiles, waves, and throws herself down next to Waverly. "Is it me? I don't think I'm ready for that just yet. Need to get to know you a bit better first."

I wink at her. "Don't you know me well enough already?" Isis is a pretty thing; no beauty queen, but definitely pretty. She's got nice hair for a ginger; long and silky, with bangs that just about reach her brown eyes. And she smiles all the time. I could go for that.

Ivory announces her presence with a sigh. She sighs all the time; she's so fucking annoying about it. Like she's so perfect.

My district partner slips into a seat next to Alder. "Hello, everyone," she says.

I don't feel like greeting her, so I don't, but everybody else does. Then the table is quiet for a moment. Predictably, nobody else tries to sit with us. If they did I'd throw them across the room. This table is Careers _only. _Wouldn't want any of the lower district scumbags spying on us, would we?

The food arrives before anyone has to think of something to say. Plates are distributed and covered dishes are placed in front of us. I uncover the dish closest to me to reveal some kind of fried fish thing. I figure District Four might like that more than I will, so I shove it over towards them and retrieve some meat pie instead. I slice off a big piece and toss it onto my plate.

The pie is scorching hot, but delicious. I have seconds and then thirds, which doesn't leave much pie for anyone else. _They should've been faster, _I think, wiping off my lips with a cloth napkin. _Not my problem._

I'm one of the first finished, so I lean on my elbow and watch the others. Ivory and Waverly both pick at their food delicately while Isis shovels hers into her mouth. Bain isn't a heavy eater, but Alder eats like it's his last day on earth. _No, that's not today, _I think. _He's got about a week left, I'd guess. He might even make it to the final two! Actually… nah, he won't. If any of us does, it'll be Ivory with my luck._

Waverly catches me looking at her and winks. "See anything you like, big boy?"

"Hell yes," I respond, grinning seductively. That's more like it. It's me she should be interested in, not Bain the fish boy.

But Bain the fish boy is looking up now, observing us with his eyes slightly narrowed. Waverly looks at him immediately. "You see things you like when you look at me too, right Bain?"

"O-of course! You're l-l-lovely!"

She giggles, and lunges forward suddenly, catching him in an impromptu hug. Her face tilts up and she presses her perfect lips against his cheek.

I've never seen a person get quite so red. Bain stammers out something unintelligible and looks down at his lap, face burning. _What the fuck? _I think. _I'm sitting right here and she goes and kisses that moron? Why would she even be interested in him with me around?!_

"Ooh," Isis is saying, waving her fork around in the air. "Look at you, my knight. It seems like you've gotten yourself a princess!"

Waverly flutters her eyelashes. "Am I the princess?"

"You bet your buttons you are!"

Alder has finished eating, and lays down his fork. "Are you two dating?" he asks seriously. "Good for you!"

Bain doesn't say anything. His lips flop around uselessly. Waverly is forced to answer for the both of them. "No, we're not dating," she says, waving her hand. "I mean, this is the Hunger Games, right? I don't think it's the right time." Her eyes go misty. "But if we weren't in the Hunger Games… Who knows?"

I've had enough. "Seriously? You'd date _him?"_

Waverly blinks. "Well, why not? He's nice and never ogles me or tries to grab me. And I've dated, like, a _lot _of people in the past so I think I should know who'd make a good boyfriend."

Bain tugs on his collar and attempts to subtly gasp for air. "You'd date… No, you're joking? R-right, Waverly? Right?"

Waverly turns to him. "I'm like a billion percent serious," she says, sliding closer to him on the bench. "Why? Do you want proof? I could give you proof." She smiles coquettishly and runs her hand along the side of his face. Bain's dark blue eyes are locked onto her green ones. He doesn't move as she leans in, pauses as though waiting for his reaction, and then presses her lips very softly to his own.

She pulls away after less than a second, smiling triumphantly. "There," she says. "Proof!"

Alder and Isis share a look before applauding madly. "Bravo, bravo!" Isis calls, and Alder keeps on wolf-whistling. Ivory rolls her eyes and begins eating again, apparently not even remotely interested. I roll my eyes too and cross my arms, looking away pointedly.

I can still hear Bain, however. "_Wow," _he whispers, uncertainly. It's obvious he's never been kissed before, and that makes me grin to myself. _What a moron, _I think. _Isn't it obvious that Waverly's a gigantic hoe? She's probably just doing this for laughs or whatever. _That still doesn't change the fact that _I'm _the one she should want to kiss, though…

Ivory clears her throat. "Alder?" she asks quietly. "Would you pass me the mushrooms?"

"Sure thing," says Alder, picking up the bowl and sliding it towards Ivory. "Saucy mushrooms for a saucy lady." He winks.

Ivory takes the bowl and spoons some mushrooms onto her plate. "Are we all pairing up now?" she asks wryly. "If so, it looks as though that leaves you with Gander, Isis."

"The Mighty Leader? I don't think I can _handle _him!" Isis crows.

"Baby, I'd handle you anytime you wanted," I murmur, relieved to finally be getting some action of my own. In the corner of my eye I can see Ivory gagging slightly, but ignore her. She's such a boring prude.

The bell from earlier is ringing again, dismissing us tributes back to our training. I get up first and yawn, cracking my knuckles. Forget it, I don't give a shit if Waverly and Bain are all lovey-dovey and Ivory is a hateful little bitch. They're all going to die, anyway. They're all going to die and I'm going to _win. _I can't forget that.

* * *

**Stin Jenkins, 16**

**District Eleven**

"You're doin' great," the trainer yawns, glancing at his watch. I can understand his motivations; we have fifteen minutes left before the training gym will close up for the day. _I think I've got enough time for this, _I think, looping a knot around the stick that is supposed to serve as a tree branch. Biting my tongue slightly, I ease the bait underneath my trap. "The bait" in this case is a small knife, something that any unarmed tribute would want to grab immediately. In doing so, they would trigger the trap instantly. Their legs would be pinned together and they would be pulled, upside-down, into the air. It wouldn't kill them, but it'd slow them down long enough for me to show up and finish the job.

The thought of killing someone pisses me off, to be honest. It's total bull that we, a bunch of kids, have to kill a bunch of _other _kids if we want to live. I want to live, but the last thing I want is to be a murderer. _I'm just teaching myself this because I might need to know it eventually, _I think, _and because what the hell, it's kinda fun. _Making traps is almost like a puzzle that I can solve, the only difference being that this type of puzzle means death for anyone who _can't _solve it.

I am the only one working with snares. I take this to be a good thing. _If I'm the only one that understands how to build traps like this, then they might actually _work. _That's certainly encouraging! Plus, even if they don't work, nobody else will know. So there's no shame in screwing up!_

My trap seems complete, so I sit back and admire my work for a moment. "This seem done to you?" I ask the trainer, even though I'm well aware that it is, in fact, done.

He glances up from his magazine. "Sure thing, kid. Why don't you try it out?"

"On myself?" I grimace. "Geez. What'd I ever do to you?"

He rolls his eyes. "Ha-ha, real funny." Then he reaches under the table for what looks like a partridge made out of cloth and stuffed with something soft. He pushes it towards the knife and the two objects collide.

Instantly, the noose tightens around the fat bird's body and it is yanked into the air. The knife clatters against the table and I draw back my fingers in the nick of time. "Well," says the trainer, "ya did it. Congrats." He pulls the partridge out of the noose. "Now go do something else."

"Yessir," I respond, although I roll my brown eyes. _Rude._

I doubt there's anything I'll be able to do in fifteen, now ten, minutes, so I begin to wander towards the doors. A lot of tributes have left already; most of the Careers are gone, and some of the more confident tributes have also abandoned the training gym. As I begin to stroll towards the exit, I notice the two from Twelve hurrying towards me. I'm a bit surprised (neither of them tried to talk to me earlier) but I slow down and wait for them to catch up.

"Hi," the girl says, once she and her district partner are standing in front of me. Both are slightly out of breath, as though they sprinted in order to reach me before I left. "I'm Flywheel," the girl says breathlessly.

"And I'm Terance," the boy adds, giving me a small, awkward grin.

"It looks like it's my turn to introduce myself," I say. "I'm Stin. Nice to meet you, my dear and dashing duo of Twelve."

Flywheel smiles. "Nice to meet you, too," she says.

"So what brings the two of you over here? Come to comment on my charming nature or good looks?"

"Actually," says Flywheel, "I want to know if you're interested in an alliance."

The way she says it so bluntly rather shocks me. I don't know what to say, so I'm relieved when Flywheel continues. "We waited until the Careers were gone," she says. "We don't want to attract too much attention. But Terance and I had this idea." From the way Terance flushes, he probably had no part in the idea, but it's nice of Flywheel to include him. "We were thinking of starting up our own big alliance," she explains. "Maybe with the other outer tributes, like from Ten and Eleven. So we thought we'd ask you. Are you interested?"

I'm _very _interested. I always figured that I'd be a part of a big alliance if I ever did get reaped. I'm a social person, and the idea of being trapped in an arena with no one watching my back unnerves me more than I can say. _Can I trust these two? _I think, looking at them. Then I feel dumb for even considering it. _Look at them. I doubt there's an untrustworthy bone in either of their bodies. _They _could _be incredible actors, but I don't see why they would even ask for an alliance with me if they were only planning on betraying it. That's a Career thing to do, and none of us are Careers.

"Can my district partner be in it?" I ask. I'm not going to be a part of this if they try to exclude Acacia.

"Definitely," says Flywheel. "We need as many tributes as we can get."

I rub my hands together. "Then count me in, my fortuitous and fantastic friends from Twelve! Shall we spit and shake?" I extend my hand, and wink.

Flywheel grimaces. Terance seems a bit pout out when she rejects my offer, as though he wouldn't particularly mind spitting and shaking. Well, boys probably understand that tradition better.

"Shall we find Acacia?" I ask. "Although if she's at the very top off one of those nets, I'm not planning on going up there."

"She's right there," says Terance, pointing. Flywheel and I turn in the direction he's pointed out to see Acacia pulling back a bowstring, arrow notched and ready. At the exact moment she's about to let it fly, I take a step forward.

"Acacia!" She yelps, twists the bow, and misses the shot completely. It sinks into the wall next to the dummy. I shake my head. "Aiming for a _wall? _What'd it do to you?"

Acacia lets out a quiet laugh which turns uncomfortable when she realizes that other tributes are with me. "Hi," she says, obviously uncertain.

I let Flywheel take it from here, as she explains her plan to my district partner. Midway through the speech, I look at Acacia's uncomfortable face and the way she fiddles with her bow, plucking at the string. _She doesn't want this, _I realize, shocked. _Why would she not want this? This is perfect!_

She explains herself a moment later. "I'm really sorry," she says, and she sounds truly genuine. "But… this alliance is way too big for me. I don't want to draw attention to myself." She looks at the ground. "I'm sorry…"

Everyone looks at me; she's my district partner, if anything I should try to convince her. I consider putting a hand on her shoulder, but that would only make her uncomfortable. Desperately I try to conjure up words that will make her change her mind, but nothing comes. _We just met, _I think, although I feel awful for thinking it. _We don't really know each other, and I don't think she opens up to people very easily. Why should she care about an alliance with me? If I try to force her, she'll dislike me for it and the last thing I need is an enemy in the arena._

"Okay," I say. "If that's what you want then I'm behind it a hundred percent, Miss Rhodo-dodendron. But there'll always be a place for you with us." I look to Flywheel and Terance for confirmation.

"Right!" says Flywheel, and Terance nods firmly.

Acacia excuses herself to head back to our floor. Even though I'll see her there, I feel like she's walking away from us for good. The melancholy lasts as we walk over to the girl from Ten, who is currently at the weight training station, attempting in vain to pick up a fifty pound weight. When she sees us approaching, she gives up with the weight and analyzes us, dark brown eyes narrowed.

As it seems that Flywheel is the leader of our little group, I step back to let her do the talking. "Hi!" she says, although she wilts slightly under the girl's stare. "My name is Flywheel."

"I'm Mallory," the Ten girl responds, finally letting up with her stare. "Mallory Atella. It's a pleasure." She directs the last at all three of us.

"I'm Terance," says Terance. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise, Miss Mallory. My name is Stin." I give her a short, gentlemanly bow.

Flywheel immediately launches into her recruitment speech, probably hoping that if she does it quickly enough Mallory won't be able to find a problem with it. By the end of it, Mallory is biting on her lip slightly. She looks from Terance to Flywheel to me, and back again, all while the three of us wait awkwardly.

"Terance," she says, looking at him. "Please be honest with me. Are you going to help me or hinder me in the arena?"

His grey eyes widen. "Um," he says. "H-help you, I guess…"

For a moment, Mallory doesn't say anything. "Good," she says finally. "I believe that the rest of you will make for good allies, and as long as you are an asset, Terance, then I accept." She nods once and extends her hand to Flywheel. "You're the leader of this alliance, I suppose?"

It's clear that Flywheel hasn't been thinking about that. "I guess I am," she says faintly.

"Shall we shake on it?"

"A-alright." Flywheel takes Mallory's hand and shakes it firmly. "Good. We're a team now." She sounds undeniably proud of the success of her alliance thus far. "So," Flywheel continues. "Your district partner. Do you think he might be interested in joining us?"

Mallory shakes her head. "He told me earlier today that he isn't interested in allying himself with anyone," she tells us. "I don't think that's such a bad thing, actually. He's extremely hotheaded. He would have the entire Career alliance on our tails by day two."

"Ah," says Flywheel. "So that's a no, then?"

"I'm afraid so," says Mallory. She glances around. "Is there anyone else you want to join us? I think this alliance is bordering on _too large. _Any more people and we might attract the notice of the Careers, and we don't need that early on."

"It's enough," says Flywheel. She still seems proud of herself. "So that's that, everyone? Shall we head upstairs?"

As the four of us head to the elevators, I reflect on the choice I've made. I don't think there are any downsides to this. Mallory seems very smart and a good asset to have. Flywheel and Terance… I don't know how much help they'll be, but if they're watching my back then I'm glad to have them. _This is good, _I think. _This is going to work out._

Of course, if I want to win, all of these people will have to die. But I'd rather not think about that.


End file.
